


Looming Gaia: Coins for Clowns

by TheGreys (alienjpeg)



Series: Looming Gaia [17]
Category: Freelance Good Guys, Looming Gaia
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Blood and Violence, Centaurs, Drama, Explicit Language, F/M, Fantasy, Fauns & Satyrs, Humor, Magic, Self-Harm, Sexual Content, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:27:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18853846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienjpeg/pseuds/TheGreys
Summary: Itchy finds success in the most unlikely of places: the stage. But is all the gold really worth it? Or will this outrageous performance be his undoing?





	1. Whatever It Takes

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the Looming Gaia series. It's recommended that you at least read "Dirty Animal" and "Sugar and Shine" before this, as it's a direct sequel to those.
> 
> Visit the blog for concept art, discussions, and more: https://loominggaia.tumblr.com/post/175087795478/looming-gaia-masterpost

### [CHAPTER 1: WHATEVER IT TAKES]

 

     _EARLY SUMMER, 6006_

 

     The plaza may have been a simple clearing of dirt, but this dirt was the very heart of Drifter’s Hollow.

 

     In the evenings it pulsed with life as villagers raced to finish their chores before sunset. Ginger and her family were among them, waiting in line at Gwyneth’s market to pay for their grain.

 

     There were a dozen people ahead of them and even more behind. They paid the satyr family glares of contempt as Cinnamon wailed in Ginger’s arms. The babe’s screaming was piercing and relentless, and here in this long line during the hottest part of the year, at the most critical time of the day, no one was in the mood for it.

 

     Ginger bounced Cinnamon in her arms. She kissed her face and cooed in her ears, but it seemed nothing could soothe her. Ginger turned to Itchy, standing beside her with the great sack of grain on his shoulder. He wore a leather satchel on his hip, a lute on his back, and a disinterested look on his face.

 

     Ginger wore nothing but her own skin and fur like most gaians in the village, with only a small cotton bag on her shoulder. So she reached into Itchy’s satchel, found one of his homemade lollipops. She unwrapped it and gave it a sniff. She smelled no alcohol, so she pressed it against Cinnamon’s wailing mouth.

 

     “Here, Cinnamon. It’s a lolly,” she said desperately. “Yummy, huh?”

The baby quieted, tasting the candy. The moment was short-lived, however, for she slapped it out of her mother’s hand and let out another piercing screech.

 

     Ginger winced, looking around at all the surrounding glares. She hugged Cinnamon close and told them, “I’m sorry, everyone! She’s not usually like this, I swear! I don’t know what’s gotten into her today!”

 

     She saw a few of them roll their eyes, heard some contemptuous mutterings. Turning back to Itchy, she begged, “Itchy, please do something. I’m out of ideas!”

 

     The satyr let out a sigh as he set the sack of grain on the ground. “Alright, alright, I got it,” he said, then he flipped the lute around to his torso. He leaned forward, planted a kiss on Cinnamon’s head and spoke loudly in her ear, “You just need some papa-tunes, don’tcha, kiddo?”

 

     Cinnamon only sobbed in response, tears streaming down her red face like waterfalls. Itchy’s fingers clumsily danced over the strings, plucking a simple, lively melody. He held the lute close to her head, for she would be deaf to it otherwise, and he hollered his lyrics so she may hear them too:

 

     “ _Oh, little lady, now don’t you cry,_

_Little lady, little lady, got a tear in her eye,_

_Don’t cry, little lady, or your papa might die,_

_Mad, sad little lady, oh why, why, why!”_

 

     He punctuated the stanza with a raspberry upon Cinnamon’s cheek. Finally the girl’s wailing gave way to wet, teary laughter. Ginger let out a sigh of relief, and so too did the villagers around them. Ever so slowly, the line was growing shorter. They tensed up again, dread sinking their guts when Cinnamon’s expression soured just seconds later.

 

     Her breath hitched with fresh new sobs. Itchy glanced at the glowering villagers, then he quickly picked up another tune. Frantically he shouted more lyrics at the babe:

 

     “ _Just the left the town of Ulsenvik,_

_The lads was thin, the ladies thick,_

_And I went down to Clydera,_

_The lads was cold, the ladies raw,_

_So I climbed up to Wintermoore,_

_The lads was dumb, the ladies whores,_

_Finally I packed my things,_

_My pots ‘n pans ‘n sticks ‘n strings,_

_I left Noalen far behind,_

_And I don’t miss it, I don’t mind,_

_‘Cause way down here in Galsungu,_

_The lads say oink, the ladies moo!”_

 

     At last, Cinnamon’s tears stopped flowing. She squealed with laughter, bouncing and flailing her chubby arms. No longer did the village suffer her wailing. Now they suffered her father’s wailing as he belted out another song to keep her smiling:

 

     “ _He runs the roads all night, all night,_

_He stole that horse all right, all right,_

_His heart of black, his horse of white,_

_His soul a mess, his face a sight,_

_He ran that horse for all its might,_

_He runs the roads all night, all night,_

_He got into a fight, a fight,_

_He killed a man all right, all right_

_His hands of red, his eyes alight,_

_His soul a mess, his face a sight,_

_The lawman’s here! Good night, good night!”_

 

     Itchy ended the song with a long screech, attacking his strings as if he were scrubbing a stubborn stain. Cinnamon loved it, thought it all very silly. The villagers, not so much.

 

     Finally Gwyneth herself had enough. She looked up from her booth as she served another customer and shouted, “Hey, you! The crusty satyr with the lute! Enough of that racket, you’re disturbing the peace!”

 

     Itchy whipped his head towards her. The ridge of hair on his spine bristled. He made a lewd gesture, crossed his eyes and waggled his tongue.

 

     “Itchy!” Ginger hissed, slapping the satyr’s rude hand out of the air. Finally it was their turn at the booth. Itchy hefted the grain onto the counter while Ginger counted out her gold. Cinnamon was growing fussy in her arms again as Gwyneth and Itchy bickered.

 

     “That poor kid of yours. I’d scream too if my father was the village idiot,” spat Gwyneth.

Itchy rolled his eyes. “Slob my knob, hob.”

“What, the whole inch?” she sneered.

 

     “I’ll have you know,” Itchy began loudly, thrusting a finger in her face, “it’s _four_ inches, and you can choke on every one of ‘em for all I care!”

“Itchy, please! Behave!” growled Ginger, trying to recount her coins as Cinnamon squirmed and whimpered in her grip.

 

     Gwyneth leaned her elbows on the counter. She turned to Ginger and asked, “What in the world do you even see in him? Dump this rotting old pig carcass and get yourself a real hunk of beef. Your kids deserve a _father_ , not an overgrown sibling.”

 

     Just as Ginger was about to reply, Itchy cut her off with a lively, rapid tune on his lute. He shot a devious grin at Gwyneth and sang,

 

     _“Oooooh, my best friend Gwenny’s ten feet tall,_

_She’s such a sweetheart, such a doll,_

_And when you roll up to her stall,_

_She twists your knob and busts your balls!”_

 

     Ginger’s freckled face flushed pink, looking back at the line of villagers behind them. Some of their expressions began to lift, giggling at the satyr’s tune.

 

     “Stop it, that’s enough!” she said, swiping at Itchy’s lute. But he swiftly jerked out of her reach, then leaped onto Gwyneth’s counter.

“Wait, wait! How ‘bout this one?” he said, and then he sang:

 

     “ _Listen folks, and listen good,_

_‘Cause I got news for you,_

_About a lady in the Hollow,_

_And trust me, she’s no good,_

_She humps the market night and day,_

_She screws you outta gold,_

_She’ll show you rotten, broken crap,_

_And then she’ll make you pay,_

_She’d sell a baby for a coin,_

_She’d eat one if she could,_

_She—”_

 

     The song came to an abrupt end as Brogan charged from the other side of the market. “Did I hear ya talkin’ shite about me wife, ya no-good, lousy, parasite?” he snarled, fist raised to strike. “I’ll knock yer teeth out yer ass! C’mere, scalawag!”

 

     Itchy jumped off the counter, ducking behind Ginger as he explained, “No, no, it ain’t like that! We’re just jokin’ around! Havin’ a laugh, that’s all!”

 

     Brogan was hardly convinced. His face flushed red with fury as he chased Itchy around Ginger in a circle. Gwyneth looked on with disinterest, then casually called the next customer forth.

 

     “Quit that, both of you!” exclaimed Ginger. She held Cinnamon in one arm, shielding Itchy with the other while Brogan tried to grab him. The baby was screaming once again. Brogan reached around her shoulder and snatched Itchy by one of his horns.

 

     Itchy shrieked, “Ginger, help!” and locked his arms around her waist. Brogan wrestled him by the head, tried to pull him to his doom. This had gone too far for too long, in Ginger’s opinion.

 

     She tossed her head back, then rammed her horned skull against Brogan’s bare chest. He wheezed at the impact to his lungs, then dropped to his behind when she swept her foot against his legs.

 

     “I’ve had just about enough,” she said calmly. It was a strained, ominous kind of calm. She was exhausted, her baby was screaming, her lover had zero impulse control, and the last shred of sunlight was disappearing by the second. This battle, she realized, had already been lost. It was time to call it a day.

 

     The grain was left behind as she seized Itchy’s ear and dragged him down the road.

“Ow, ow, ow, Ginj—”

“I don’t want to hear it, mister!” she barked over Cinnamon’s wails, pinching his ear even harder. “I cannot _believe_ your behavior today! I swear, you’re like a spring soul in an autumn body! What on Gaia is wrong with you?”

 

     Cinnamon’s cries died to ragged sobs. Her sobs softened to whimpers. It seemed her hours of fussing were coming to an end with the day.

 

     Itchy’s voice cracked when he exclaimed, “With _me_? Did you hear all the shit that elf was talkin’?”

“Yes, and that wasn’t right. But you know darn well that’s just Gwyneth’s way! You didn’t have to escalate things with her!”

“I don’t even know what that means!”

“It means ‘make things worse’, Itchy!”

“Oh.” The satyr blinked. “Yeah, I definitely did that.”

 

     Ginger opened her mouth to speak again, interrupted by a distant, “Hey!”

The satyrs turned. Someone was rushing down the trail after them. To Itchy’s relief, it wasn’t Brogan. Rather, it was Alaine Fontaine, one of the mercenaries from the other side of the village.

 

     She was a young woman perhaps in her late 20’s, blue of hair and lips. Her legs and cheeks were covered in green scales, for she had the mermaid’s curse. The rest of her was covered in unusually fancy clothes for a local—a fine striped dress with a short blue jacket of suede, and a brimmed hat of the same material.

 

     A lute case was strapped to her back. She stopped before the satyrs with her hand outstretched, holding a silver coin in her palm. “Here,” she said with a toothy grin. “I liked your show back there. Thanks for that, it made me laugh.”

 

     Ginger hesitated, looking between the coin and the woman. Itchy didn’t hesitate at all. He quickly swiped the coin from her and said, “Aw, it’s nothin’! I write that stuff in my sleep!”

“Well, from one performer to another…” Alaine jerked her thumb in the direction she came. “I think you should play at the tavern sometime. I’m on my way to a show now, actually. Do you guys wanna come?”

 

     “Oh, we should really be getting home—” Ginger began.

“Ginj, c’mon,” pleaded Itchy. “We’ve been working all day. Let’s have a night out! It’ll be fun!”

 

     “I don’t think the tavern is the best place for you,” Ginger mentioned sharply.

Itchy argued, “What am I gonna do? Lick swill off the floor? You got all my money!” He gestured to the cotton bag slung over her shoulder.

 

     Taking Ginger’s hand, Alaine gave it a tug and told her, “Come on, Ms. Ginger! Please? Everyone’s going to be talking about it tomorrow. You’ll feel so left out if you don’t…”

 

     The satyress looked down at the baby in her arms. Cinnamon had finally worn herself out, quickly drifting to sleep against her mother’s shoulder. Then her gaze flicked to Itchy and Alaine’s big, hopeful smiles.

 

     “I suppose I could go for a drink,” she sighed. Alaine and Ginger cheered, then the satyrs followed Alaine back towards the plaza.

 

     They passed the market and cut through its trailing line, then arrived at the old tavern. It was a shabby building of splintered wood, its ceiling high and pointed.

 

     The sharp smell of smoke and alcohol greeted them as they stepped inside the dim interior. The place was busy indeed, tables packed with laughing, chattering travelers and locals alike.

 

     “I have to get ready,” Alaine told the satyrs. “We’ll be on in a few minutes. Get comfy and enjoy the show!” With that, she hurried to the back of the room and disappeared through a door.

 

     She reappeared on the stage in seconds, where two men were rolling out a heavy piano on wheels. She took out her lute and pushed the open case to the edge of the stage, began carefully tuning the instrument.

 

     Ginger passed Cinnamon to Itchy, told him to find a seat while she ordered a drink. To his surprise, she returned with two. He eyeballed the stein of beer suspiciously and said, “I thought you didn’t want me drinkin’ no more.”

 

     “I don’t want you _getting_ _drunk_ anymore,” the satyress clarified, sipping from her stein. She wiped the froth from her lips and added, “This will be your first and last beer of the night, and that’s that.”

 

     A wide, toothy grin spread over Itchy’s face. He quickly seized the drink and tipped the bottom towards the sky. Tiny streams trickled down his beard in his haste. In his lap, Cinnamon slept soundly, deaf to all the drunken chaos around her.

 

     “Good evening, good evening, lovely people!” a voice called from the stage. The chatter died to a murmur as patrons turned to the stage, saw Alaine standing there with her lute. To her right was Glenvar, another one of the mercenaries, sitting before three great deerskin drums. To her left was yet another mercenary, a red elf named Jeimos. They waved at the crowd from their place behind the piano.

 

     Alaine continued, “All benefits from tonight’s show will be going towards the town waterwheel. So if you’d like to see this podunk slum rise out of the stone age, toss a couple coins in the case.” She tapped the lute case with her booted foot. “The waterwheel means electricity, and electricity means public lights. And you know what public lights means, right? Stay up late, party all night!”

 

     Glenvar punctuated her with a loud boom of his biggest drum. The patrons raised their steins high, cheering sloppily as the band dove into a merry, rollicking song. Some clapped along, others rising to dance.

 

     Itchy saw Captain Atlas dancing in a circle with his crewman, Lukas. He heard a thunderous clomping against the wooden floor, turned to see two centaurs, Olof and Elska, rearing up and stomping down together in rhythm.

 

     Ginger laughed and clapped along with the music. Then she yelped as Itchy snatched her arm, pulling her onto the table with him. He’d left Cinnamon to sleep in his chair while he danced on the tabletop.

 

     “Itchy, the baby—” Ginger cried, reaching for Cinnamon.

But Itchy laughed as he pulled her back and dipped her low, assured her, “She’s fine, lassie! She’s fast asleep, she don’t hear a thing!”

 

     The satyrs’ steins sat empty on the table. Itchy kicked them to the floor and hopped, skipped, spun in a lively dance with Ginger. She couldn’t hold back her smile any longer, and at last she gave in to the fun of the night.

 

     The band performed for the rest of the hour, and by the end of it, Alaine’s case was heavy with coins. Before she left, Ginger dug through Itchy’s satchel and found the silver coin given to him earlier. She tossed it in the case and told him, “It’ll come back to us when they finish that wheel.”

 

     Many peoples relied on lanterns at this hour to guide them through the darkness. But the satyrs were naturally equipped for such a thing. Their eyes would slowly adjust until they could see almost as clearly as in daylight.

 

     As they walked down the quiet trail, Ginger turned to Itchy and said, “I’m glad you talked me into that. I forgot how long it’s been since we’ve danced.”

“Not since the kiddo,” Itchy told her, tipping his head to the babe sleeping in her arms.

 

     Ginger thought back to her pregnancy. How difficult it had been to be stuck in bed all night and day, relying on Itchy of all people to take care of things. How she ever made it through, she still didn’t know.

 

     “I’ll take Cinnamon home,” she said. “Why don’t you go pick up Tomato? I don’t want him walking all the way from that compound by himself—not at night.”

 

     “Sure thing, lassie.” The satyr split from her when they reached a fork in the road. Before she left his sight, he walked backwards and called to her, “And hey, don’t hit the sack just yet! I won’t keep ya waiting long! Promise!”

 

     Ginger waved at him with a smile and walked on. Bolting down the trail, Itchy reached the great wall of the mercenary compound in minutes. He passed through the gate doubled over and wheezing, slowing as he reached the open plaza. Here stood a well and a mercenary drawing water from it—an ivory-skinned elfenne named Linde.

 

     “You, lady,” Itchy coughed. She turned to face him, pink eyes glowing in the darkness. He raised a finger, stopping briefly to catch his breath. Then he continued, “You seen my kid around here? Red hair, spots, ‘bout this tall?” He raised his hand to his ribs.

 

     Linde replied brightly, “Oh yeah! I saw him playing with Isaac a while ago. They’re up there.” She pointed towards the sky. Itchy cocked his head in confusion, squinting up at the stars through the opening in the canopy. A moment later, he jumped at a loud crowing sound.

 

     A massive black roc swooped low overhead. Leaves rustled in its wake, nearly blowing Itchy off his hooves. The satyr’s eyes rounded when he saw a flash of orange on the bird’s back. It was none other than Tomato, clinging to Isaac’s waist as they rode in its saddle.

 

     Itchy’s stomach dropped, threatened to hit the floor. He cupped his hands around his mouth and cried frantically, “Tommy, what are you doin’? Get down from there!”

 

     “Hi, Mr. Itchy!” Tomato called back with a wave. “Look, I’m flying! I’m flying!” The bird made a U-turn in the sky, swooping low and then high. Itchy gasped when it made a full vertical loop, the boys screaming with delight all the while.

“Get! Down! Now!” Itchy hollered.

Tomato argued from the sky, voice faint over the wind, “Don’t freak out! We’re fine! This is so much fun!”

 

     The satyr stomped his hoof and screamed, “Tomato of Stonebirch, you bring your little hooligan ass down here _now_! I ain’t gonna tell ya again!” He looked this way and that, swiped a stone off the ground and held it up threateningly. “I’ll bring ya down myself if I gotta! Don’t make me do it, boy!”

 

     He saw Isaac turn his head, exchange some words with Tomato. Then the roc made another turn and spiraled down into the plaza. Its talons landed with a heavy thud. Itchy and Linde shielded their eyes from the great plume of dust and wind, then Itchy scrambled towards the bird.

 

     Tomato climbed down its harness. Itchy seized his skinny arm the moment his hooves touched ground.

“You almost gave me a heart attack! No more of that, not ever!” he told the boy sharply, dragging him down the path. “You know damn well if you mama saw that, she’d drop like a sack of potatoes.”

 

     The boy twisted in his grip. “Aw, come on! You’re supposed to be the fun one! Isaac flies all the time. It’s totally safe!”

“Let me ask you somethin’,” began Itchy. “Do you got wings?”

Tomato blinked. “Uh, no?”

“Then you ain’t no bird and ya weren’t meant to fly! Stay on the ground, and if I catch you in the sky again I’ll tell Ginger all about it. I don’t know what she’ll do to ya. But it won’t be pretty, I’ll tell you that.”

 

     “Ugh, you’re so mean…I never get to do anything fun…” Tomato grumbled. He grumbled all the way back to their little house, its front window alive with a warm glow. When they stepped inside, Ginger groggily waved at them from the bed of hay and furs on the floor. A candle burned on the dish beside her, Cinnamon asleep in her bassinet.

 

     Itchy’s ears drooped. “I didn’t take that long, did I?”

“I was just resting my eyes…” the satyress yawned. She sat upright and beckoned them towards her. There was a worn book lying at her hooves. She pulled it into her lap as Itchy settled in beside her.

 

     Tomato remained by the door, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His face was sour as a grape.

“How about ten pages tonight?” said Ginger, flipping to her bookmark. “You can read this time, Tomato.”

The young satyr wrinkled his nose as he walked passed her, headed straight for the ladder and climbed up to his dark loft above. “I don’t wanna read,” he pouted.

 

     His mother quirked an orange brow. She spoke up towards the loft, “Fine, then I’ll read. But don’t you want to see the pictures?”

Tomato wrapped himself in his blankets like a cocoon. “I’m not a baby, mom! Jeez…” he grumped. Ginger shot a questioning look at Itchy, who simply shrugged back.

 

     “Hm,” began Ginger, clearing her throat. “Well, when we last left off, the old man and his friends found themselves in the desert…”

 

     Ginger read on as usual. She read all the dialogue in funny voices the way Tomato loved—or used to love, it seemed. Tonight he was curled up alone in the loft, pretending not to listen. He could only restrain himself for so long. About three pages in, he moved his pillow and uncovered a hole in the old wood.

 

     From here he peeked down at the pictures in the book. If he missed them now he may never see them again, for Ginger was always trading their old books to other villagers for new ones. There wasn’t enough space in the tiny house to keep so many things.

 

     Somewhere during the 8th page, Tomato’s eyes closed and he hadn’t the strength to open them again. Ginger gently trailed her voice off and closed the book when she heard his soft snoring above. The children were lost to slumber, but Itchy couldn’t have been more awake.

 

     The moment she set the book aside, he rolled on top of her with a devious giggle. He pinched the candle’s flame and cloaked the room in inky blackness.

Ginger squirmed, grunted, “Ow—darling, you’re on my hair...”

“Sorry, sorry…”

 

     She couldn’t see, but felt his kisses everywhere. He couldn’t see, but felt her hands everywhere. The two rolled about in a tangle of limbs and hushed voices, making love in the darkness. It was the finale to their sacred nightly ritual: eat dinner together, read the kids to sleep, then wear themselves out in the bed. It had been this way for a decade and it would be for many more.

 

     Or so they hoped.

 

     Ginger wrapped her arms around the satyr’s neck, along for the ride as he jostled her like an earthquake.

“You better…pull out…!” she warned.

Itchy’s rhythm came to an abrupt halt. With a quirk of his ears he blurted, “In _summer_?” He’d never heard of a satyress conceiving outside spring.

 

     Tipping her head towards the bassinet, Ginger whispered, “After our little miracle, I’m not taking any chances…”

“Ginj, you’re kiddin’!”

“Spring _just_ ended. Let’s just give it another week or—”

 

     At that moment, Cinnamon began to whimper. The sound quickly escalated to cries, sobs, and then a terrible screeching that trembled the windows. Itchy let out a long, defeated groan as he rolled off Ginger, nearly on the verge of tears himself. A box of matches was lying somewhere nearby. Ginger palmed around for it, struck a match on her hoof and lit the candle.

 

     Once again the room was bathed in a warm glow. It lit the way as Ginger stumbled towards the bassinet. “Cinnamon, my baby, it’s okay…Please, it’s so late…” she cooed lifelessly. She offered her breast but Cinnamon wouldn’t latch. She only screamed harder, so hard that she spewed on herself and her mother.

 

     “Oh, Cinnamon!” Ginger gasped. She held the babe at arm’s length and hissed, “Itchy, get over here and help me! Please!”

The satyr did so with a grumble and a groan. He swiped a rag from the kitchen area, started wiping Cinnamon’s face and worked his way down to the floor.

 

     Cinnamon wailed all the while. Letting her nap earlier was probably a bad idea, her parents thought, but it was too late for regrets now.

“This just isn’t like her,” said Ginger. “She never fusses like this! Do you think something’s wrong with her?”

Itchy reached between her ankles to scrub the spit-up from the floorboards. “I think something’s wrong with _us_ ,” he mumbled.

 

     From his loft, Tomato hung his weary head over the railing and exclaimed, “Just put her ass outside for the night! She’s so annoying!”

“Tomato, watch your language!” Ginger scolded him. “And be nice to your poor sister! I don’t think she feels well.”

“Neither do I, ‘cause she keeps me up all night! Just get rid of her! I don’t like her anyway!” growled Tomato. Then he threw himself back in his bed of hay, piling pillows and blankets over his head.

 

     Ginger gasped, “ _Tomato_!” But before she could chew into the boy, Itchy put his hands on her shoulders and led her back to their bed with Cinnamon.

“Let it go, Ginj,” he said. “Ain’t worth it.”

 

     Cinnamon lie between her exhausted parents, flailing and crying inconsolably. Singing, tickling, kissing and playful raspberries—these things only added fuel to the baby’s rage.

 

     “We’re taking her to Dr. Che at the crack of dawn,” decided Ginger, dragging a palm over her groggy face. No one protested. They simply lie captive all through the night as Cinnamon kept them awake. Only minutes before sunrise did she finally tire herself out.

 

     Just as Cinnamon closed her eyes, Itchy and Tomato closed theirs too. There was a collective sigh of relief between them. Not a minute later, they jolted awake when Ginger announced, “Wake up, boys! Sun’s up, time to go!”

 

     Of course they couldn’t simply rise and run out the door. Cinnamon slept peacefully as the rest of the family scrambled about. Who knows how long they would wait at the clinic? Ginger figured they should eat breakfast first just in case, so she began boiling water over the fireplace for oatmeal.

 

     “Tomato, please check the crops for bugs,” she ordered. “And Itchy, I want you to chop strawberries. Quickly now!” She clapped her hands and her son rushed out the door, Itchy rifling through cabinets until he found a sack of withering strawberries. He gave them a sniff. For a human, surely too old. But nothing a satyr’s stomach couldn’t handle.

 

     His hands quaked with fatigue as he chopped them at the table. Ginger pulled the boiling water off the fireplace rack. The pot was heavy and she stumbled as she carried it back to the counter. She bumped into Itchy on the way, yelping when a bit of hot water splashed on her hand.

 

     At the same time, the knife slipped and claimed a chunk of Itchy’s fingertip. The satyr cursed and shoved his bleeding digit in his mouth. He garbled angrily over it, “Watch yourself, Ginj! Almost lost a finger here!”

“Well, don’t stand in the way then!” she snapped back. Quickly she poured the water into the three bowls, then scooped Itchy’s strawberry slices in her palms and dumped those in too.

 

     Cinnamon suddenly woke then. They knew, because her wails picked up right where they left off.

“Oh, wonderful…” Ginger muttered under her breath. Then she wrenched the window open and called, “Tomato, breakfast is ready! Hurry up, we gotta go!”

 

     The boy wasn’t done picking aphids from their crops, but he brushed his dirty hands on his dirty knees and hurried back inside anyway. As she and Tomato sat down to eat, Itchy paced all around the house with his finger in his mouth.

 

     He picked through cabinets, turned over baskets, and emptied boxes before Ginger barked, “What are you doing? Stop it, you’re making a mess! Sit down and eat right now, we have to get Cinnamon to the doctor!”

“We ain’t got a single bandage in this dump?” the satyr growled. He turned over one last container, spilling sewing supplies across the floor.

 

     “Che will have one, I’m sure,” Ginger told him. She pointed her spoon at the empty chair beside her. “Now eat so we can go!”

Finally he called it quits and joined his family at the table. Cinnamon screeched endlessly just behind him. The tension in his shoulders felt like a lute string about to snap.

 

     When Ginger emptied her bowl, she gathered the fussing baby and ushered Tomato out the door. “Come on, come on,” she urged. Itchy was still eating when she grabbed him by his arm and yanked him along too. His half-eaten breakfast sat alone in the dark house as the door closed behind them.

 

     Together the satyr family hurried down the main road. They passed by Olof, up early as usual to chop wood outside his house. He paid them a friendly wave and chuckled, “Oh, someone is not happy!” as Cinnamon screamed in Ginger’s arms.

Itchy grumbled under his breath, “Horse-assed bastard, always got somethin’ to say…”

“Itchy, be nice,” Ginger hissed.

 

     The satyr couldn’t find anything nice to say, so he plugged his mouth with his bleeding finger. In minutes they reached Che’s clinic. The simple wooden building was really two buildings joined together—the clinic and Che’s tiny living space. The doctor was just stepping out of his front door when they approached, clad in his white coat. A cup of coffee steamed in his hand.

 

     He greeted the family with a wave and a smile, but none of them could muster either. Ginger simply asked, voice hoarse and desperate, “Dr. Che, I’m begging you…when’s the soonest you can see Cinnamon? She’s been crying so hard, she makes herself sick! Something is very wrong!”

 

     Che stepped up to the baby and looked her over. “What is problem?” he asked, raising his voice over her wailing.

“We don’t know!” Itchy nearly sobbed. “That’s why we’re here, doc! Just fix her, _please_!”

 

     The doctor nodded and beckoned them into his clinic. “Come in. I see what I can do.” They stepped into a lobby, where four villagers waited to be treated. Some had surely been waiting all night, two of them lying on the floor. Che offered a smile and asked them, “How everyone is feeling today?”

 

     He earned a round of silent glares. His eyebrows jumped when he muttered, “I guess not good,” and he set his coffee aside. “If you feel the death coming, please go to Woodborne hospital. Much more doctors there! Does anyone feel the death?”

The patients groaned and mumbled. Ginger recognized Feredil and her husband Balthazaar among them.

 

     “My foolish husband drank ‘wine’ he found in an old tomb. That was two days ago and he hasn’t stopped vomiting since!” Feredil mentioned. As if on queue, Balthazaar leaned forward and gagged over a wooden bucket in his lap.

Thoughtfully stroking his goatee, Che mumbled, “Hm, I see. Maybe serious. But he is strong, fat man! He will not see the death for many days. So, I examine little baby first,” he gestured to Cinnamon, “then your husband next. Nurse Tojum come soon to help.”

 

     With that, the satyrs followed him into the examination room. He gestured to the table in the center, where Ginger set Cinnamon down and said, “Thank you for squeezing us in. We’re so very, very grateful.”

“Not thank me yet,” he told her, sorting through his tools on the counter. “I find problem first.”

 

     Tomato slumped bonelessly over the chair in the corner. Itchy and Ginger stood by, flinching at every “hmm” and “huh” the doctor uttered.

 

     Ginger wrung her hands before her chin. Only then did Itchy notice the burn spreading across her right thumb. He pulled his ailing finger from his mouth and took the hand in his, looking at it closer.

“What happened here?” he queried.

 

     “It’s fine. I just burned it a little when I was making breakfast,” Ginger told him. After a pause, she took his hand and examined his finger. A bit of blood trickled onto her palm. “Your poor finger. Does it hurt?”

“I’ll live.” Itchy shrugged. He turned to Che and asked, “Hey, you got a bandage, Doc? You don’t need more blood on your floors…”

 

     As he peered through a scope into Cinnamon’s ear, Che told him, “Just wait, I fix you in a moment. I think I find problem with baby.”

 

     “You did?” the couple blurted at once. Che gently stroked Cinnamon’s furry ear, and immediately she jerked out of his grip with a shriek.

“Yes, is her ear,” he told them with certainty. “Big infection inside. Poor baby, in very much pain! She need a medicine to feel better, but I do not have it.”

 

     “What do you mean you don’t have it?” Itchy crowed, stepping forward. “Ain’t you a doctor?”

Calmly taking the satyr’s injured hand, Che laid it over the table and explained, “I have learnings, Mr. Itchy, but not always gold. I ask nothing for me, so many days I have nothing for you.”

 

     He dipped a cotton ball in a jar of salve. Itchy winced as he scrubbed it over the cut and went on, “I can order medicine for you. I need one hundred GP first.”

Ginger gasped while Itchy blurted, “Who’s got a hundred gold pieces just layin’ around? Don’t screw with me, Doc! How much is it really?”

 

     “I tell you, is one hundred!” Che insisted, wrapping the end of Itchy’s finger with gauze. “This ear medicine very good, but not cheap! Is why I not have it, you see?” He tipped his head towards Cinnamon, whimpering in Ginger’s arms. “You can find a way. Ginger is smart lady. Tomato is smart boy. You are, eh…you love Cinnamon much, yes?”

 

     “With all my rotten heart!” exclaimed Itchy.

Che nodded. “Then you must work hard and bring gold to me, fast as possible. Very sorry, but I cannot fix without it.”

 

     Itchy’s ridge bristled high on his spine. “Well! Thanks for nothin’, ya damn quack!” he snorted, and then he stormed out the door.

“Itchy!” Ginger called after him, but it was too late. He was already standing outside, huffing and puffing with anger. The satyress turned to Che and said, “Thank you for your help, doctor. I’m so sorry about that. He’s just…”

 

     The doctor offered a strained smile. “He is frightened. Feels scary when a baby is sick.” He reached forth and ticked Cinnamon’s chin. She swatted at his hand and sobbed, her face wet with tears and mucus. Che assured Ginger, “Ear infection hurts, but will not bring the death. Just the pain and the crying.”

 

     “Oh, my little Cinnamon,” Ginger sighed, stroking her daughter’s curly hair. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you that medicine, no matter what it takes.”

 

*


	2. Still Ain't Dead

### [CHAPTER 2: STILL AIN'T DEAD]

 

     “Can I help? Please, please, pleeeease?” begged Tomato. Itchy pulled the boiling pot from the fireplace, mindful of his wrapped finger when he set it on the table.

 

     “You got memory problems? I said ‘no’!” Itchy barked over Cinnamon’s cries. “All you’re doin’ is gettin’ in the way!”

“I wouldn’t be in the way if you let me help,” argued Tomato. “We could make even more candy even faster-er, and I can help you sell it too!”

 

     Itchy stirred the amber mixture in the pot, closely examining its consistency as it oozed from the spoon. “Dammit, kid,” he sighed. “You’re killin’ me here! Don’t you got chores to do?”

Tomato shrugged. “I finished them.”

“My ass, you finished ‘em! Go outside ‘n fix the fence like your mama told you.”

“I did!”

“So help me, if I walk out there and see a broken fence—”

 

     “Boys, _please_ …” Ginger groaned from the wooden tub, where she scrubbed a blanket against the washboard. “Between Cinnamon and you two, this headache’s going to be the death of me! Tomato, why don’t you find Flora and ask if you can pick some flowers? We’re almost out of soap.”

 

     The young satyr sighed, “Fiiiiine…” and swiped a basket from the cabinet, then he disappeared out the front door.

“I have a reading class in less than an hour,” Ginger warned Itchy. “I really can’t have you making a distraction of yourself. Do you think you’ll be done soon?”

 

     Itchy spooned globs of the mixture onto trays to cool. “Almost there, lassie. Soon as these are cooled, I’ll get ‘em wrapped and head out.”

“Just be careful out there. Don’t run your mouth to anyone. And I know this batch has alcohol in it, I can smell it! You better not ‘test’ any this time…”

 

     The satyr looked towards his crying daughter, expression tired and sullen. “I don’t think I can afford to,” he said.

 

     Once the candies cooled and solidified, Itchy wrapped them in rice paper and loaded them into his satchel. With the satchel at his waist and his lute strapped to his back, Itchy left the house just as some villagers arrived for their lesson.

 

     He headed to the mercenary compound first, lying on the southernmost edge of the village. The mercenaries spent all day training and working up an appetite—they were always in the market for candy. But when he arrived, there was hardly anyone there. The dining hall was empty, the captain’s office was locked, and the well plaza was barren.

 

     He found only a lone centaur milling around by the community chicken coop, hauling sacks of feed on her shoulders. Elsa was her name, if he remembered correctly.

 

     Itchy whistled to get her attention, called, “Elsa, hey! Do you—”

“Elska! I am Els- _ka_!” she bellowed, turning to face him. Her arms flexed under the weight of the grain, exposed by her sleeveless tunic. Each bicep was the size of his head. Her pale yellow hair was bound in a tight braid, hanging all the way down to her naval.

 

     Itchy had no intention of crossing her. He raised his palms with a nervous smile and quickly apologized, “My bad, Ms. Els-ka! I’m not tryin’ to be a punk. I just wanted to know where everyone got to. This place is a ghost town today!”

Elska’s expression remained stony as always when she replied, “Yes. Captain Atlas dispatched most of the crew this morning. I am to guard the compound until they return tomorrow.”

 

     “Damn…” the satyr mumbled. He silently scratched at his beard for a moment. Then his eyes brightened as he offered her a treat from his satchel. “That just means more candy for you then, right? How much do you want? I got a two-for-one deal goin’ on!”

 

     Elska’s blue eyes briefly flicked to the candy. Then they bored back into Itchy’s. “No,” she said flatly.

Itchy’s ears sank. “How ‘bout four-for-two?”

“You dare taunt me? Do you think me a fool, satyr?” Elska glowered down at him, hoof thumping heavily as she took a step forward.

 

     “Okay, listen,” Itchy sighed, “I got a sick baby at home and her medicine costs an arm and a leg. The sooner I sell this stuff, the sooner she gets better.” He pushed the candy closer. “So do you wanna throw me a bone or not?”

 

     A silence passed between them. Elska’s expression didn’t change at all. Itchy swore she was carved from stone. Finally she said, “You are a known liar and a thief. I have no respect for your kind.”

“My _kind_?” Itchy spat. “What, you got a problem with satyrs?”

“No. I have a problem with honorless scoundrels. Besides,” finished Elska, turning to leave, “I cannot afford to spend my gold so frivolously. My clan depends on it.”

 

     Itchy watched her plod away down the trail. He opened his mouth to say something off-color, but her bulging muscles and heavy hooves caught his tongue. For once, he thought better of it and walked away.

 

     He spent hours wandering the village proper hocking his wares to anyone who would give him the time of day. He cut deals, he lied and embellished—anything to get a coin in his hand. Some days he just didn’t make a lot of sales, and normally that was something he shrugged off. But this time was critical, and unfortunately his reputation as a scoundrel preceded him.

 

     Hardly anyone believed him when he explained his plight, for they’d grown wise to his fake sob stories in the past. They realized he wasn’t a Folkvar veteran, a struggling father of twelve, a crippled traveler, or a priest raising money for the church…So why should they believe him when he said he needed coin for his sick daughter?

 

     They did not. So Itchy ran from end to end of town to make sales, even cutting through the forest to trade with the wild peoples on the outskirts. He didn’t sell his last candy until sunset, and thanks to his desperate deals, he didn’t earn half as much as he planned to.

 

     Now he found himself standing in the village plaza as other villagers rushed to finish their chores. The sun was quickly disappearing, yet he had no desire to go home. He couldn’t face Ginger after so many hours and hardly anything to show for it. He could imagine the disappointment on his face and Cinnamon’s terrible wailing, and he quickly shook the thought away.

 

     No. This wouldn’t do. He stepped aside as a group of villagers stumbled passed him, roaring with laughter as they headed into the tavern. Alaine’s suggestion echoed in his memory. Suddenly got an idea.

 

     He recalled the mermaid’s lute case sitting on the stage, all glittering with coin. When was the last time he went busking? Close to a decade, perhaps. He’d slowly given up music after getting involved with Ginger, having children and responsibilities, and wiping one too many rotten tomatoes off his face.

 

     What did he have to lose anymore? His last frayed thread of dignity? That was hardly his concern when his child suffered so terribly. He took a deep breath, pulled the lute off his back and walked into the tavern.

 

     The interior was as dim and smoky as always. Travelers, soldiers, and locals alike were flooding in just in time for the first performance of the night. On the stage, two enchanting maenads danced to the beat of a troll’s booming drum. They wore revealing garments made of little brass bells, tinkling with every shake of their hips.

 

     Men cheered from their tables, throwing coins and lewd commentary at the stage. Itchy found himself enthralled, enchanted, aroused by the performance…Until he remembered what he was here for, and then he made his way to the backstage door. Normally there was a burly gorgon here to guard it. But Itchy saw him slithering away to break up a punch-out, so he hastily sneaked through unnoticed.

 

     The maenads finished their performance half-way through the hour. No one was scheduled to entertain after them, so the barkeep triple-checked his schedule when a random satyr with a lute showed up on stage. The satyr was middle-aged, an ugly and uncouth thing with a bald scalp and a long mane of curly, unkempt hair below. He wore nothing but a satchel on his hip and a lute in his arms.

 

     The satyr was unmistakably Itchy, and some of the locals greeted him with boos and hisses right off the bat. Itchy shouted back at them, “Hey, hey, shut up! I know I ain’t no sexy nymph, but I got tunes all the way from south of the Bluerock River! Listen here and taste some culture, ya yokels!”

 

     He strummed a lively melody as he sang, his voice rough and gruff as ever,

 

     _“Evangelites skip, Matuzans sway,_

_Blue above, orange down the way,_

_A world between, or so they say,_

_But still they fight, and still they play!”_

 

     His anxious fingers flubbed the notes, his voice cracked at all the wrong times, and his audience was hardly merciful about any of it. Their booing flooded the air, peppered with crude insults and more than a few “Get off the stage!”s. Beads of sweat gathered on Itchy’s brow.

He exclaimed, “Okay, wait! How do ya like this one? Wrote it myself, way back when!” and then he sang,

 

     “ _He runs the roads all night, all night,_

_He stole that horse all right, all right,_

_His heart of black, his horse of white,_

_His soul a mess, his face a sight,_

_He ran that horse for all its might,_

_He runs the roads all night, all night,_

_He got into a fight, a fight,_

_He killed a man all rig—”_

 

     “You sound like a dying animal!” a man roared from his table, and then he pitched his empty bottle at the stage. Itchy’s eyes rounded. He saw the man draw his arm back and had just a second to react. He jumped to the side, the bottle missing him by inches. It sailed onto the stage with a sharp _clink, clink_ and rolled to a stop.

 

     Itchy shot a glare at the man. Then he rushed to the bottle, lifted it high above his head and exclaimed, “Nice aim, jackass! Here, let me show you how it’s done!” Suddenly he whipped the bottle against his forehead. The crowd gasped when it shattered into a thousand tiny shards, though Itchy didn’t even flinch.

 

     He did so only out of anger, frustration, and utter loathing for the crowd before him. He intended to walk off the stage and call it a night, face his sick baby, his moody step-child, and his disappointed lover…

 

     But to Itchy’s surprise, he heard a cheer from the audience. One cheer turned to two, then ten, then a couple clapping hands escalated to a roomful of applause. One woman stood up and shouted, “Do it again! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

 

     Others joined in, the room pulsing with their chant. Itchy looked on, stunned. Then a grin spread across his face as his hands returned to the lute. He began playing a simple tune. “And now for my next song, a spin on a timeless classic we all know and love. Sing along with me, kids!”

 

     _“A hundred bottles of ‘shine at the still,_

_A hundred bottles of ‘shine,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     The satyr stopped the song abruptly as he crouched at the end of the stage. He pointed to a man’s beer, then tapped his forehead and said, “Smash him, brother!”

Delighted, the man raised his bottle and broke it against Itchy’s head. The crowd cheered and Itchy sang on,

 

     _“—Smash his head, he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of ‘shine at the still!”_

 

     Itchy jumped off the stage, dancing around the bar with his lute and his lively tune.

 

     _“Ninety-nine bottles of ‘shine at the still,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of ‘shine, oh yeah!_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     He tipped his head towards a woman, who promptly broke her stein on his skull. Unflinching, Itchy continued,

 

     _“—he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-eight bottles of ‘shine at the still!_

Kill him, folks, he’s a bootleggin’ menace! C’mon!

_Ninety-seven bottles of ‘shine at the still,_

_Ninety-seven bottles of ‘shine,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     Another patron whipped his half-empty bottle against Itchy’s head, beer pouring down his face. The satyr simply shook it off, flashing a big smile while the patrons clapped in rhythm around him.

 

     _“—he still ain’t dead,_ that bastard!

_Ninety-six bottles of ‘shine at the still…”_

 

*

 

     It was nearly midnight by the time Itchy came home. Ginger gasped when he walked through the door, greeted him with a hug and a shower of kisses.

 

     “Thank the gods! I was just about to send one of those mercenaries out looking for you!” she said. “Where on Gaia have you been? And—Itchy, what happened to you?” The satyress tugged his beard, pulling his head down to examine the bloody bruises all over his forehead.

 

     Itchy had been preparing this lie during his whole walk home, and he was quite proud of it when he told her confidently, “I’m fine, don’t worry about it! Some drunk guys just jumped me when I was leaving the tavern. They weren’t nothin’. I took care of ‘em.”

 

     Ginger furrowed her brow. “What were you doing at the tavern?”

With an ear-to-ear smile, Itchy opened his satchel and presented a heavy load of coins. “Sellin’ candy, like I said!” he told her. “What, you thought I was drinkin’? Screwin’ around, slackin’ off? Have a little faith in me, lassie!”

 

     Throwing her hands to her mouth, Ginger’s eyes bugged at the gleaming coins. Then they flicked back to Itchy when she asked quietly, “How much?”

“Enough for the kiddo’s medicine and then some. Where is she, anyway?”

 

     Ginger jutted her shoulder towards the bassinet and replied wearily, “I _just_ got her to fall asleep. Tomato’s been out for a while. I simply couldn’t close my eyes; I was so worried about you…”

 

     Itchy unbuckled the belt of his satchel, shrugged the strap off his shoulder and let it drop to the floor. Some coins spilled out and rolled across the floorboards. “I got it handled, Ginger. Don’t worry about a thing,” he said, and in moments she found herself on her back atop their crude hay bed.

 

     She wrapped her furry legs around his waist and gasped between kisses, “Thank you…oh, thank you…you just amaze me, my darling…I knew you’d pull through for her…”

Itchy’s heart swelled with pride—a feeling most foreign to him—and he couldn’t straighten his grin for anything.

 

     Ginger didn’t need to know the truth. It wasn’t relevant. All that mattered to him was that his family was happy and healthy, and he would do anything to achieve that. Such as hopping on a stage and abusing himself for tips, apparently. But in the end, he got everything he wanted.

 

     Almost.

 

     Ginger panted beneath him, legs all askew as he grinded her down against the bed. He was a sweaty mess, about ten seconds from paradise when a terrible, deafening shriek tore through the room. Suddenly paradise seemed an eternity away. Miserably he rolled off of Ginger and she fumbled to light the bedside candle.

 

     “Just a minute, Cinnamon…” she sighed.

 

*

 

     At dawn’s first light, the satyrs returned to Dr. Che’s clinic. They couldn’t arrive soon enough as Cinnamon screeched the whole way there. The lobby was full of a half-dozen writhing patients, but when Itchy presented the satchel of coins to Che, he ushered them into the examination room first.

 

     “The medicine come from Tonsborg,” Che explained, “If I order now, I get in five, maybe six days.”

Ginger and Itchy exchanged concerned expressions. Tomato blurted from behind them, “We can’t wait that long! I haven’t slept in days—I’ll go crazy! _Mom_!”

 

     “Hush,” Ginger hissed, then turned to Che and explained, “Doctor, Cinnamon’s in terrible pain. She’s been refusing milk, and I’m afraid she’ll starve if we wait any longer! Is there any way at all that we could get the medicine sooner?”

The doctor stroked his goatee in thought. Then he swiped a scrap of paper and began scrawling something on it, said, “Is long trip, but you can go to Tonsborg and buy medicine yourself. Two days to and back if you walk. One day on horse.”

 

     He passed the slip of paper to Ginger. Tapping the address scribbled in the corner, he said “I buy from Morbus, very smart witch. You find her here.”

“Tonsborg,” Ginger repeated quietly. She turned to Itchy with a look of uncertainty. “We’ll have to find someone to tend the garden while we’re gone. And we’ll have to find a ride too. Maybe one of the mercenaries will escort us? Aren’t the roads dangerous? What if—”

 

     Itchy plucked the paper from her hand and stuffed it in his satchel. “I got this,” he told her. “Take the kids home. I promise I’ll come back with that medicine by tonight.”

 

*

 

     Elska had just begun her morning chores at the compound. As she hauled a massive log upon her shoulders, she saw Itchy running up to her on the road. He stopped before her, blocking her path as he caught his breath. The centaur tried to step around him, but his hand shot up and he panted, “Elsa, wait!”

 

     “Els-ka!” she grunted. She stomped her hoof, made the satyr jump.

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “Listen, I already tried to ask Olof but he’s gone somewhere. So can you give me a ride to Tonsborg real quick? I’ll buy you a beer!”

 

     Elska’s expression faltered ever so slightly. The log dropped with a heavy thud, then she seized Itchy by the horns and lifted him off his feet. He squirmed in her grip as she bellowed, “A _ride_? Do you suggest we centaurs are some kind of draft beast?”

 

     Itchy dangled from her iron grip, hooves flailing. “No, no, no! That ain’t what I’m sayin’!” he insisted anxiously. “I mean, what’s the big deal? That other centaur lets folks ride him all the time! What’s his name? The black one with the saddle?”

“You speak of Javaan,” Elska groaned the name with contempt, “and he is only slightly more respectable than you are. He does not represent our people.”

 

     Itchy yelped as she released him, clumsily hitting the ground. Effortlessly she picked up the giant log again and began walking away.

“Javaan was dispatched this morning anyway,” she called back to him. “If you need an animal, ask the captain for an _animal_. Not one of his crew!”

 

     Itchy picked himself up, brushed himself off, and hurried to Evan’s office. It was a small building overlooking the well plaza. He banged his fist on the door and shouted, “Captain! You there? I need somethin’, quick!”

“Come in,” a voice called from behind.

 

     Evan sat behind his desk, flinching when the satyr came barreling through the door. Itchy accidentally knocked some papers to the floor as he leaned over the desktop, explained, “My kid’s really sick and I need—”

“You’re not getting a coin out of me,” Evan told him flatly.

“I don’t need your damn money!” cried Itchy. “I just need a ride to Tonsborg. You got a horse I could borrow? A mule? Anything!”

 

     Steepling his fingers before his lips, Evan stared the satyr down in silence. Itchy waited, impatiently tapping his cloven toes on the floor.

“After what you did with our last horse,” began Evan, “I’m a bit reluctant, to say the least.”

Itchy slapped a hand over his face. “Oh, come on! That was _ten years_ ago! Ain’t nobody in this world holds a grudge like you, Atlas! Don’t you know how much I’ve grown?”

 

     Evan’s brows jumped a little when he said, “You have grown, yes. You’ve grown from a pile of manure into a little brown sprout.” Itchy rolled his eyes. The captain went on, “But you’re hardly a pretty flower, Itchy. You have a long way to go before I trust you with my property—especially a horse. They aren’t cheap, you know.”

 

     Itchy let out a long, heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face. Then he dropped his hands to his sides, revealing a more sincere expression. “Look,” he began, “I know I lie a lot. I know I’m a slimy bastard. But my daughter ain’t like me. She’s the sweetest little thing in the world, never did nothin’ to nobody, and right now she’s in so much pain she can hardly eat!”

 

     He dropped to his furry knees, clasped his hands together over the desk. “If you won’t do it for me, will ya please, _please_ do it for her? Sooner I get back from Tonsborg, the sooner she gets her medicine.”

 

     A thick silence passed between them. Evan looked into Itchy’s eyes, steel-gray, weary, and pleading. He’d never seen the satyr so desperate for as long as he’d lived in the Hollow.

 

     Finally the captain relented. “Alright,” he sighed. “I can get you a ride.”

“Really? You can? Aw, Atlas, you’re a peach!” Itchy shot to his feet, wearing a bright, beaming grin. “I’ll show myself to the stable. Which horse should I take?”

Evan rose from his seat and told him, “You’re not getting a horse. Follow me…”

 

*

 

     Itchy wasn’t a terribly motivated person. Love was the only force that could cut through his laziness and degeneracy, and so it was his love for Cinnamon that pushed him into Shadow the roc’s gazebo.

 

     Now he careened through the skies faster than a satyr was ever meant to move. He curled up on the floor of the gazebo, a quivering mess of snot and tears until finally, Isaac piloted the bird to the ground. Their journey that could have taken all day by foot was completed in less than an hour by roc.

 

     Isaac pushed his flight goggles to his head, clambered down from Shadow’s saddle and opened the gazebo. “Welcome to beautiful Tonsborg!” he exclaimed. Itchy picked himself up from the floor, wiping his nose and eyes before gathering his things. With his satchel on his hip and his lute on his back, he followed Isaac into the city proper.

 

     “I, uh,” Itchy began, clearing his throat, “might have pissed on your floor a little. Just a little!”

The boy sighed. “You wouldn’t be the first. At least you didn’t puke everywhere…”

 

     The city of Tonsborg sat on the eastern coast of Noalen, a Folkvar territory known for its fishing industry. Its ships were a testament to that, peppering the waters as far back as the horizon. Isaac and Itchy could see them from the top layers of the city, for it was built upon a steep hill and divided into tiers.

 

     Thick cables were strung from posts along the street, buzzing with electricity. Before them was a wash of identical structures along narrow streets, towering boxes of wood with steep, pointed roofs. The roads were crowded with pedestrians and carriages, Folkvar soldiers, sailors, and mewling stray cats.

 

     The satyr and the boy maneuvered around them as they made their way to the address on the note. Che had even drawn a simple map. But Itchy was just barely literate, so he relied on Isaac to lead the way.

 

     “You ever been here before?” queried Itchy. “’Cause I haven’t.”

Isaac replied, “Sure, plenty of times. The crew gets a lot of job orders from Tonsborg.” He wrinkled his nose at the stench wafting up from the docks. “And they all stink.”

 

     Before long, the two arrived at a tenement. The building towered four floors high, a structure of briny old wood and cobblestone. It was tilting ever so slightly. Heading inside, Itchy and Isaac climbed three flights of creaky wooden stairs before they reached unit 102, the same one marked on the note.

 

     Isaac knocked on the door. Soon it opened, a plume of green vapor billowing out. The two waved the cloud away and saw a decrepit human with long, white hair standing before them. But she could be no human, they quickly realized, for her ears were long and pointed, yellow in the whites of her eyes. Her corpse-white skin was the texture of dry jerky.

 

     Was she a goblin? No, her nose was much too small, her head too round…And surely she couldn’t be an elf, for elves appeared youthful even in the winter of their lives.

 

     “Yes?” she queried, eyeing them warily. Her lashes were dark and remarkably long, clumped together with a generous helping of mascara. Isaac threw a glance back at Itchy.

The satyr stepped forward and told her, “Are you Morbus? Uh, Dr. Che sent me from Drifter’s Hollow. I need some medicine for my kid.”

 

     The woman’s eyes rounded. Her wrinkled lips spread into a smile and she flung the door wide open, ushering them inside. “Yes, that’s me! I know Dr. Che, he’s a wonderful physician! And so dreadfully handsome too…” she punctuated herself with a cackle, slamming the door behind them.

 

     Isaac and Itchy stood there awkwardly in the dim little room. It was cluttered floor to ceiling with books, scrolls, and boxes. There was a desk scattered with crystals to the left. Bottles of all shapes and sizes filled the shelves to the right. And just in front of them, a brass cauldron bubbled over the fireplace. It was the source of the green vapor.

 

      “Just a minute, dears, I’ll be right with you…” Morbus told them, and then she disappeared through a doorway. Her oversized purple robe dragged along behind her, dwarfing her skinny frame. Itchy eyeballed the big black spider in the corner, hanging in its web all strewn with fly corpses.

 

     He nearly jumped out of his skin when something hairy brushed his leg. The satyr jumped onto a chair with a yelp. Isaac laughed, “It’s just a cat! Here, kitty, kitty!” The boy stooped, offering a hand to the black cat. It rubbed its head against him, then another identical cat approached with a mewl.

 

     In seconds, a half-dozen black cats had crawled out from the clutter to greet them, rubbing against Isaac and meowing for food. “I bet you smell my bird, huh?” Isaac said to them. “Well, good luck trying to eat her. I think she’d eat _you_ , all in one bite!”

 

     Itchy remained on the chair, distrustful of the cats. Isaac queried, “Don’t you wanna pet them? Look how friendly they are! They’re so cute!”

But Itchy shook his head and told him, “We gaians don’t do the whole ‘pet’ thing, kid. Feeding a wild beast, shovelin’ its crap…What’s the point?”

“They’re not wild, they’re tame. That’s why they’re pets.”

“Heh, _tame_ …” Itchy rolled his eyes. “An animal’s still an animal no matter what you call it. They should stay in the woods, if you ask me!”

 

     “Sorry about that, dears,” said Morbus, entering with a jar in her hands. She uncorked it and poured its flaky contents into the cauldron. The vapor turned from green to blue. “I just have to keep the brew stable, you see, or it might explode and send this whole building to the stars!” she cackled and tossed the empty jar aside. Itchy and Isaac exchanged nervous chuckles.

 

     Morbus collapsed on the loveseat beside them, all adorned with knitted doilies, and asked, “Now, what kind of medicine are you looking for?”

Itchy snatched the paper from Isaac and handed it to her. “Whatever he wrote on there,” he said. “It’s for my daughter’s ear infection. It’s been killin’ the poor kid for days!”

 

     Morbus squinted at the paper for a moment. Then she quickly rose up and began rifling through a cabinet. “Ah, yes, my special ear drops! You won’t find a better mixture in all of Noalen. Cures one hundred percent of cases, guaranteed!” She dipped further into the cabinet and muttered, “Er, now where did I put them?”

 

     Isaac sat on the floor and the cats began climbing all over him. He giggled in delight as they purred and batted at his coiled locks. Itchy just shook his head. He didn’t understand humans; never would. He’d only ever known cats as annoying pests and bad cuts of meat.

 

     “Here they are!” said Morbus, pulling a tiny amber bottle from the cabinet. It was no bigger than a finger with a crude, hand-drawn label stuck to it. “How old is the child?”

“She was born late last winter,” replied Itchy.

The witch explained, “Then put just one drop in her ear twice a day until the bottle’s empty. It should provide immediate relief to the poor thing. But be sure to finish the bottle or the infection will come raging back! Understand?”

 

     “Sure, got it,” said Itchy, opening his satchel. “One hundred GP, right?”

Morbus chuckled, “Ah, so you’re privy to my discount, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Handsome satyrs get fifty percent off,” she told him with a wink. She smooched the air and cackled, tossing the bottle high. Itchy fumbled wildly to catch it, feeling scandalized as he paid her.

 

     Once the medicine was safely tucked in his satchel, he had the nerve to finally ask, “So you got a satyr fetish, do ya? Well, what are you anyway? I never seen a human with hob-ears in my life!”

 

     “Human? Ha!” She swatted the air dismissively. “I’m as elven as Titania herself! And believe me, I was just as ravishing once upon a time…” Her smile faded. “A word of advice, boys: never kiss a melusine. I’ve spent my whole life trying to brew a cure for Haggomah’s Blight with no success. So if you ever come down with that wretched curse, don’t come crying to me about it! It’ll rob you of your beauty like a hungry brigand…”

 

     She traced her decrepit finger down the length of Itchy’s nose. “…And that would be quite a shame, wouldn’t it?” she cooed. The satyr shuddered, shot up to his feet. He nearly tripped over the cats as he made a swift exit.

“Been a pleasure, lady,” he said. “Come on, kid, let’s get movin’!”

 

     Morbus trailed them to the doorway, waving as they hurried down the stairs. “Don’t be a stranger, dear!” she called.

 

*

 

     Isaac wasn’t sent all the way to Tonsborg just on behalf of Itchy’s plight. Evan gave him a list of errands to complete while he was there too. The boy assured Itchy he would only be an hour or two, then hurried off down some unfamiliar street. Itchy stood around outside Morbus’ tenement for some time, getting more anxious by the minute. He just wanted to go home. The sooner Cinnamon got these drops, the better.

 

     Itchy shielded his eyes as he looked towards the sun. High noon, and Isaac was nowhere to be seen. Just across the street he saw a tavern, where sailors were walking in and stumbling out. He gave his satchel a shake. Three leftover coins jingled inside.

 

     What was the harm in one drink? Just to calm his nerves before his terrifying flight home, he thought. So Itchy took his three coins up to the bar and ordered a beer. The stage in this tavern was much grander than the one in Drifter’s Hollow. Electric spotlights beamed down on the performer—a sword-swallowing roshava.

 

     His audience cheered as he picked up a sword in each of his four hands, pushing them all down his throat at once. Without even a wince, he gracefully pulled them out and took a steep bow. Itchy finished his beer by the end of the performance. It hadn’t touched his nerves at all.

 

     Left alone in an unfamiliar town, miles from home with a flight ahead of him…Itchy couldn’t take it. He needed a few more drinks in him to get through this, he thought, or he’d surely have a nervous breakdown. But to get more drinks he needed more coin, and that’s why he climbed onto the empty stage with his lute.

 

     “Hello, Tonsborg!” he greeted. The crowd regarded him with curious stares, for he hadn’t soured his reputation here yet. “I’m just a drifter from south of the river. They call me Itchy the Indestructible, and you’re gonna see why tonight!”

 

     He then belted out one of his folksy tunes, intentionally playing the worst version of it he could manage. He screeched and growled the lyrics out of rhythm until a murmur spread over his audience. It wasn’t long before they began to boo him. Itchy only grinned and played worse.

 

     Nobody was getting violent yet. He decided to antagonize them. “Yeah, keep bitchin’! I like it! Ain’t nothin’ you ugly slobs can do to me that I ain’t done to me!”

 

     The crowd took that as a challenge.

 

     “Get off the stage!” a drunken sailor bellowed before pitching his stein. Itchy jumped up and caught it in the air, fumbled before he got a secure hold.

The satyr raised the stein high and said, “You know, this reminds me of an old song. Sing with me, folks!”

 

     _“A hundred bottles of slosh at the bar,_

_A hundred bottles of slosh,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     The patrons gasped when he suddenly smashed the stein against his forehead. Glass shards exploded across the stage, glittering under the spotlights.

 

     _“—he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of slosh at the bar!”_

 

     With his hand free, he began strumming a simple tune and said, “We still got ninety-nine bottles to go before this no-good drunk goes down! Come on, let’s see some bottles!”

 

     One by one, smiles spread over the patrons as Itchy jumped off the stage and wandered around the bar, plucking his tune. He jumped onto a couple’s table and sang,

 

     “ _Ninety-nine bottles of slosh at the bar,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of slosh,_

Smash his head, lady, go on!”

 

     He crouched before a local woman, who bashed him over the head with a bottle. The rest of the crowd broke into cheers and whistles.

 

     _“Nope, he still ain’t dead!_

_Ninety-eight bottles of slosh at the bar!”_

 

     The show went on and on, patrons crowding the bar to buy more drinks—if only to smash them over Itchy’s head. The barkeep scrambled to fill every order while the satyr’s face grew blacker, bluer, and bloodier. Hoarsely he sang,

 

     _“Just one more bottle of slosh at the bar,_

_One more bottle of slosh,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     The last patron made it count, a burly sailor with a strong arm. He knocked Itchy to the floor with his swing, the satyr falling onto a sea of broken glass. He faltered for just a second, then finished his tune,

 

     _“—and now he’s dead,_

_No more bottles of slosh at the bar!”_

 

      The crowd erupted into whistles and cheers, applause all around. Itchy staggered upright, brushing the glass off his back. His hand came away streaked with blood and he waved it at the audience. Soon they were showering him with coins, splashing like rain around his hooves.

 

     Itchy scooped it all into his satchel. Now it hanged heavy at his hip and he took pride in every pound. He approached the bar and asked for two things: a rag to wipe the blood away and a few rounds to wipe the pain away.

 

     The stout old barkeep provided both, then told him brightly, “That was the most outrageous show this dump has ever seen! I sold more drinks in one hour than I’ve sold all day! Where on Gaia did you come from, son?”

Itchy sipped from his beer and chuckled, “Some podunk place west of here. You never heard of it.”

 

     “Well,” began the barkeep, “I’ll give you fifty GP to perform again next week. Same time, same day. I’ll advertise your act and everything. What do you say?”

Itchy thought about it for a moment. “Make it a hundred.”

“Deal,” said the barkeep, and they shook on it.

 

     Outside, the sun was tipping to the west as Isaac paced circles around Morbus’ tenement. He peeked into alleys, popped his head into nearby shops, calling for Itchy. He waited for some time, wondering if he’d just left to find a bathroom or get something to eat. He didn’t find the satyr until he checked the tavern. There he was, sure enough, drinking and laughing with a group of locals.

 

     Isaac charged towards him and blurted, “I just spent the last two hours looking for you!” He paused, noticing the satyr’s head all battered and bruised. One of his eyes was blue and swollen, a bit of paper stuffed in one nostril to cork the blood. “What happened to your face? Are you okay?”

 

     “Oh, hey!” Itchy greeted with a sweep of his stein. Some expensive, top-shelf beer sloshed onto Isaac’s shirt. “Ya missed my ssshow, kid! I jus’ needed a lil’ drink before I go…”

Isaac furrowed his brow. “You’re drunk,” he said flatly.

“Huh?” Itchy nearly fell out of his chair as he swiveled around. “Nah, not me! I only had…” He splayed his fingers before him, eyes struggling to focus.

 

     He quickly gave up and said, “Only a few pints! I’m sssober as a monkey! Welp, les’ go home.” Tipping back the last of his stein, he slammed it on the table and stood up.

 

     “You mean a monk,” said Isaac, catching the satyr when he stumbled. Itchy threw an arm around his shoulder as they walked out of the tavern. They made their way back to the outskirts, where Shadow awaited with the gazebo.

 

     Along the way, Itchy slurred, “Yer a good kid, Issy. If I ever have a ssson, I hope he’s jus’ like you!” He gave the boy a sloppy pat on the back.

Isaac quirked an eyebrow. “I thought you had a son. What about Tomato?”

Itchy paused. Then a grin spread over his face. “Oh yeah, I forgot about ‘im! I love that lil’ bastard! Real sssmart, jus’ like his mama!”

 

     He let out a loud, wheezing laugh and rustled Isaac’s hair. They made it back to Shadow that evening, then touched down in Drifter’s Hollow before sunset. Shadow planted the gazebo just down the road from the satyr family’s house.

 

     “Okay, we’re here!” called Isaac. He pulled his goggles down around his neck and climbed off the bird. When he opened the door to the gazebo, he found Itchy sleeping in a puddle of vomit.

 

     Slapping a hand over his face, Isaac groaned, “Awww! Come on, man!” and reluctantly moved in to wake him. He shook Itchy’s shoulder and pestered him until he finally sat up.

 

     Itchy swiped the mess from his cheek, looking around at the floor. “Who puked in here?” he mumbled blearily.

“You did!” barked Isaac, and he yanked the satyr to his hooves. “I’ll take care of it, just get out! Go home and give that medicine to your baby. She’s been waiting long enough.”

 

     He shoved Itchy towards his house, then hopped back into the roc’s saddle and took off. Itchy had sobered up a little on the ride over, though he was feeling sicker by the minute. He staggered up to the door and heard Cinnamon wailing from the open window.

 

     Ginger was holding the baby when he walked in, desperately trying to soothe her. She placed Cinnamon back in her bassinet and rushed towards him, cried, “Good, you’re back! I—” Ginger stopped in her tracks at the sight of him. His face was black, blue, and red, bits of vomit caught on his messy hair, and dirt smeared across his body from neck to naval.

 

     She opened her mouth to speak, but Itchy interrupted, said, “Don’t sweat, lassie. I’m fine.” Then he reached into his satchel and presented the little bottle of medicine. Ginger took it carefully as if it were a delicate flower.

 

     “Is this…?” she queried.

Itchy nodded. “The medicine. Yeah. One drop twice a day, that’s what the old witch told me.”

A long, relieved sigh gusted through Ginger’s nostrils. She raised her arms to hug him, then thought better of it and hurried back to Cinnamon.

 

     “I smell booze on you. But we’ll talk about that later,” Ginger told him, uncorking the bottle. “Just please get yourself cleaned up.”

 

     Itchy headed to the river to wash. The remaining beer in his blood took the edge off his fear, but by the time the sun fell over the horizon he was sober once more. He spent some time gathering firewood and plant fibers for the house, then returned just as Ginger was tucking Cinnamon in for the night.

 

     She turned to him with a delighted smile, said, “She’s _sleeping_ , Itchy! I put that first drop in her ear and it was like a miracle!”

Itchy closed his eyes, exhaled as he dropped the stack of firewood by the door. He mouthed a silent ‘thank you’ to the powers that be, then he found himself in Ginger’s embrace.

 

     She planted a kiss on his lips and said, “Thank you for keeping your promise.” Her smile faded as she traced her fingertip over a bruise on his cheek. He winced under the gentle touch. “But I’m still worried about all this. My goodness, you look like you were trampled by horses! Will you please tell me what happened? Please don’t lie to me. I know there was alcohol involved.”

 

     Itchy opened his mouth to answer. He closed it again, thinking hard about his next words. Ginger waited. Her green eyes were sad and pleading.

 

     “I, uh…” Itchy cleared his throat. “I had a few drinks, yeah. Stopped at the tavern in Tonsborg while Isaac was finishing some stuff. But I didn’t go there to drink! I went there to play.” He gestured to his lute, leaning against the wall behind him. Then he took the satchel off his hip, opened it up and revealed the decent chunk of coins inside.

 

     “Folks there don’t hate me like folks here do,” he explained. “They loved my music, Ginj! They loved it so much, they want me to come back a week from now and play again.”

 

     Ginger cocked her head, cautiously taking the satchel from him. She hesitated, then queried, “Really?”

“Really! I made more money tonight in an hour than I make sellin’ candy all day!”

 

     In the loft, Tomato crept to the railing and peered down at the two below. He listened as Ginger gestured to Itchy’s bruised face and said, “That doesn’t explain all this. What did you do, Itchy?”

 

     After a meandering groan, Itchy told her, “I just, uh, partied a little too hard after the show. That’s all. Tonsborg folks are rowdy drunks, whoo boy! Lots of sailors over there. Think they’re tough guys and wanna fight everything that moves. I didn’t start nothin’, I swear!” He offered a smile, kissed her cheek. “You know me. I’ll live.”

 

     Ginger stared into his eyes for a moment. Then she closed her own and sighed, “Cinnamon got her medicine. That’s all that really matters, I suppose.”

 

     She reclined on the bed and patted the space to her left. Itchy cuddled up beside her and she raised her voice to the loft, “Tomato, it’s story time! Do you want to read tonight?”

 

     Crawling back to his bed, Tomato wrapped himself in his blankets and grumbled, “No…”

“Again?” Ginger raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeling okay, darling?”

“I said I’m not a baby! I don’t like story time anymore,” he pouted.

 

     Ginger turned to Itchy. He simply shrugged, said, “ _I_ like story time.”

“In that case, we shall continue,” Ginger smiled, opening the book at the bookmark. She read by the warm, flickering light of the candle. A chorus of crickets chirped softly outside, their songs blowing in with a cool breeze from the open window.

 

     Itchy could hardly pay attention to the book. In his head was a storm of lies and anxieties. If only he were a decent musician, he wouldn’t have to make up all these lies, he thought. But he was no musician. He was nothing but a clown. A fool fit only for people with dignity to taunt and abuse. The lowest of lowliest folks, less respectable than even the trolls who came to empty the village cesspit every month. At least the trolls provided a necessary service.

 

     Itchy hated clowns, yet here he was in the midst of them. He made himself sick. Though if making himself sick meant making Cinnamon better, he supposed he had no regrets. Besides, he never dreamed he could earn so much gold at once! He thought of all the things that money could buy. Top shelf alcohol, his own horse, a fancier lute, a bigger house in a better town…

 

     He became so lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Ginger stop reading until she pinched the flame of the candle. The room went black, Tomato softly snoring above. Itchy grunted as the plump satyress rolled on top of him. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel the smile on her lips when she kissed him.

 

     They romanced the night away uninterrupted while Cinnamon slept peacefully across the room. She was finally content, and so was Ginger when she collapsed beside Itchy. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and panted, “I could break my damn jaw on you, lassie.”

 

     “Oh, don’t do that,” she teased, playfully tugging his beard. “You’re bruised and battered enough as it is.”

“Aw, I think I’d live.”

The satyress rested her head on his chest, said quietly, “I never want you to hurt yourself. I love you too much, darling. Every little part of you.”

 

     “Every little part, huh?” Itchy grinned. “Even my four-inch knob?”

Ginger giggled, “I think it’s adorable. And you know when I see something cute, I just have to kiss it…”

Itchy burst into laughter. Ginger nearly squealed as he suddenly rolled over top of her, throwing a hand over his mouth to hush him.

 

     “Shh, Itchy, Tomato is—”

But it was too late. The boy scrambled out of bed, threw his pillow over the side of the railing and exclaimed, “Will you guys shut up already?”

“Hey!” barked Itchy. “You’re supposed to be asleep!”

 

     “I would be, if this family wasn’t so loud! First Cinnamon and now you!” Tomato squinted in the darkness. “What are you doing down there anyway?”

Itchy couldn’t help himself. “We’re makin’ you another sibling,” he snickered. Ginger slapped his arm.

 

     Tomato groaned, collapsed back in his bed. “Nooo, stop it!” he groaned. “Cinnamon’s annoying enough!”

“Tomato of Stonebirch,” scolded Ginger, “I’ve had enough of your attitude lately! You have no business being so mean to your baby sister.”

 

     “ _She_ has no business being so stupid!” growled Tomato.

Itchy’s ridge of hair bristled. He stood up and growled back, “You better watch that mouth, kid! Don’t make me come up there!”

Tomato slung his blanket over his shoulder and began climbing down the ladder. “You don’t have to,” he said, “’cause I’m sleeping outside! I’d rather be out there than with you people!”

 

     “Tomato—” Ginger called after him, but he was already out the door. It slammed in his wake. She turned to Itchy and cried, “Itchy, do something! Go get him!”

 

     The satyr took a step towards the door. Then he stopped himself, thought it over. Waving a dismissive hand, he returned to the bed and told her, “Ah, forget it. Let him go.”

“He can’t sleep out there!”

“Why not? Kid’s horns are comin’ in, Ginj. He’s not a baby no more.” Itchy wrapped an arm around her, spoke through his yawn, “It’s a warm summer night. He’ll be fine.”

 

     Ginger wrung her hands, staring at the door for a long moment. Logically, she knew Itchy was right. Yet her heart called for her child, worried and worried endlessly as long as he was out of her sight. The wild outdoors was a wicked place indeed, she knew all too well. She tried to let it go, dropping her hands to her sides with a sigh.

 

     “He’s become so ornery,” she said sullenly. “Ugh, just like his father…”

“I ain’t like that,” Itchy yawned, already half-asleep.

Ginger shot him an odd look. “No, I mean his…” she trailed off, paused for a moment. She planted a kiss on the satyr’s bruised cheek. “Nevermind. Goodnight, my love.”

 

*


	3. Discipline

### [CHAPTER 3: DISCIPLINE]

 

     The first rays of dawn beamed through the Forest of Refuge. Tiny insects and particles danced in the golden light. All was peaceful, including Tomato, who slept soundly on the front porch. The melodic birdsong didn’t wake him. But he did wake when something nudged him, a gruff voice calling, “Rise ‘n shine, boy!”

 

     Tomato rubbed the sleep from his eyes, saw Itchy looking down at him. He flinched when the older satyr tossed a small wicker basket onto his lap and said, “Glad the foxes didn’t drag ya off. Come on, your mama wants eggs for breakfast.”

 

     Tomato tossed the blanket away, stood up with a yawn and a stretch. He picked up the basket and followed Itchy down a narrow path into the forest. Itchy kept his gaze towards the canopy, scanning for nests in the vast tangle of branches. Every so often he glanced down at Tomato, and the boy wore the same sour expression each time, dragging his hooves with every step.

 

     “What’s your problem?” asked Itchy. Tomato said nothing, only shrugged. High in a gnarled oak, Itchy spotted a flock of birds chirping away. He took the rope off his satchel-belt and tried to toss it around a sturdy branch. He missed.

As he tossed it again, he glanced at Tomato and said, “Get that pissy look off your face, will ya? You got nothin’ to be bent out of shape about.”

 

     He tossed the rope, cursed under his breath as he missed again. Tomato just rolled his eyes with a loud sigh. Swiping a stone, Itchy began tying it to the end of the rope.

“You don’t know how good you have it,” he went on. “When I was your age, I was gettin’ yelled at by a bunch of drunks while I wiped up their puke all day long.”

 

     He tossed the weighted rope. It got stuck in a smaller branch before it hit its mark. Itchy tugged at the rope, trying to disentangle it as he continued, “And every night, I’d sleep in a cold attic with a bunch of fleas ‘n roaches. Ain’t nobody read to me! Ain’t nobody ever hugged me or said they loved me either!”

 

     The rope came loose, stone hitting the ground. Itchy picked it up and pointed it at Tomato when he asked, “The way you been actin’ lately, it better stop. You’re being a spoiled brat.”

 

     Tomato’s furry red ears sagged. He stomped his hoof and blurted, “Spoiled? _Cinnamon’s_ the spoiled one! Whenever she cries, you hug her and give her presents and treat her like a princess. But when I cry, you just tell me I got nothing to cry about! It’s not fair!”

 

     Itchy was about to pitch the rope again. He stopped mid-throw and turned to the boy, said, “Tommy, your sister is…” He paused, choosing his next words carefully. “She’s got special problems. She ain’t like you.”

“Yeah, she’s like _you_ …” the boy muttered, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Dumb as a stump.”

 

     The rope dropped from Itchy’s hand. He cocked his head at Tomato, ears drawn back as he barked, “What did you say?”

“I said she’s dumb like you!” Tomato shouted. “Dumb, dumb, dumb!”

 

     The ridge on Itchy’s back bristled. His fists quaked at his side. “That’s it! Come here, I’ll swat your little ass!” he snarled, and then he lunged forth to swipe at the boy. Tomato darted to the side and the older satyr lost his balance, tumbled forward into the dirt. Tomato pointed and laughed. Then he hit the ground as Itchy pitched a dirt clod at his freckled face.

 

     Itchy just rose to his feet as Tomato wiped the dirt from his eyes. The boy’s jaw dropped in shock. Then the shock gave way to anger when he shot upright and bolted towards Itchy with a screech. Itchy bent his knees, braced for a pathetic little impact. But he never expected Tomato to leap high in the air and snag him by the horns, dragging him back into the dirt.

 

     Itchy scrambled back to his feet, but Tomato would let go of his horns for nothing. He shook the boy this way and that, spun him around and kicked at his heels, growled, “You’re such a punk! I can’t believe your behavior today! What’s the matter with you, huh?”

 

     Tomato kicked at the satyr’s belly and growled back, “ _You’re_ a punk! How come you’re allowed to be bad and I’m not?”

“’Cause it’s already too late for me, kid!” Itchy snarled through his teeth, pressing his forehead against Tomato’s. They glared into eachother’s eyes, head to head and horn to horn. “I wasted my prime years makin’ bad decisions and it turned me rotten from the inside out! But you still got time yet, so quit actin’ like a jackass and make somethin’ of yourself!”

 

     “I don’t wanna be lame and spongy like mom! I wanna be a _real_ satyr like you!”

“Well, I ain’t no ‘real’ satyr! I’m a damn clown, that’s what I am!”

“Argh! You never let me do anything! I hate this stupid family!”

Itchy squeezed the boy’s wrists a little harder and snarled, “If you don’t quit talkin’ sass, I’m gonna slap that mouth right off your—”

 

     “Itchy, my god! Just when I thought you couldn’t sink any lower!” a voice called from somewhere above. The satyrs loosened their grips on eachother, eyes flicking around at the canopy. Finally they spotted her—Flora, standing on the sturdy branch with the birds.

 

     Her pink hair trailed down to her hips, swaying gently in the breeze with her fine silk loincloth. Her bare toes clung to the branch, balancing effortlessly as she crossed her arms and glared at Itchy most disapprovingly. “Fighting with a mere child,” she began. “Have you no shame? Ginger would throw you out in the cold if she heard about this…”

 

     “Wait! Don’t tell her!” Itchy pleaded, hands splayed before him. “Flora, please. She’s got enough to worry about with Cinnamon. She doesn’t need this right now.”

Flora wrinkled her nose. “Then why are you creating more problems for her?”

“I’m not tryin’ to!” the satyr wailed, dropping to his knees.

 

     After a moment’s hesitation, Tomato stepped forward and said, “Please don’t tell her, Ms. Flora. I’m okay. We just had a disagreement, that’s all.”

“A disagreement,” the nymph repeated doubtfully. She planted her hands on her hips. “Looked more like a fight to me.”

Itchy swatted the air. “Naaah! We don’t fight, not ever! We just had a little argument and now it’s sorted. Water under the bridge.”

 

     Flora regarded them both with a long silence. The satyrs offered anxious grins back, Itchy rustling Tomato’s mop of red hair. Then the nymph told them, “Don’t forget: you’re in my house. So do behave.” And with that, she tossed something to the ground before disappearing into the leaves. The birds flew away in a flurry of tweets and feathers.

 

     Itchy and Tomato exchanged glances, then hurried towards the bundle on the ground. It was a fat nest of sticks and leaves. Four small, blue eggs were cradled inside. One was cracked, so Itchy poured its yolk into his mouth while Tomato placed the rest in their basket.

 

     “Think that’s enough?” queried Tomato.

“It’ll have to be,” Itchy replied with a shrug. “Let’s go home and get ‘em in our stomachs before we kill eachother.”

 

     When they returned to the house, they found Ginger peeling potatoes over a bucket. Cinnamon bounced happily in her bassinet, chewing on a stuffed rabbit.

“Cinnamon just had her drops and I’m almost done with the potatoes,” Ginger told them. “Did you boys find any eggs?”

 

     “Sure did,” said Itchy, placing the basket beside her. She cooked them alongside the potatoes, and together the family sat down for breakfast. Cinnamon suckled at Ginger’s breast while she ate her food. The satyress raised her fork to her lips. It hovered there when she realized just how filthy Itchy and Tomato were.

 

     “What on Gaia were you two doing out there?” she asked. “You’re covered in dirt from head to toe!”

Sharing a brief glance, Itchy and Tomato were reluctant to answer. Finally Itchy settled with, “We, uh, tripped over…some, uh…sticks.”

 

     Ginger raised an eyebrow. She had her doubts, but decided to pick her battles and said, “Then we might as well head to the river after breakfast. No sense in dragging out the wash tub on such a warm, beautiful day.”

 

     So that’s just what the satyr family did. They gathered their toiletries in a basket—their soaps, rags, combs, and chewing sticks—and brought them to the riverside near the town plaza. It seemed everyone else had the same idea, for the river was alive with laughing, bathing, swimming villagers.

 

     There was safety in numbers, with more eyes to keep watch for animals and drownings. This community area was a scenic, safe, and serene place to all…

 

     Except Itchy. Through his eyes the river was a big, sinister mouth hungering to swallow him whole. Meanwhile, Tomato took a running start and leaped in without hesitation. His best friend, Frederick, was waving him over from the opposite side of the river.

 

     Ginger sat in the shallow water with Cinnamon as Itchy stalled on the rocky shore. Itchy stared at his rippling reflection and shuddered. Years ago, he could only face it if he was drunk. These days he could face it sober, but that’s not to say he didn’t hate every wet, miserable second.

 

     Itchy took a deep breath and looked towards the sky. Slowly he tipped his cloven toes into the water. As she washed Cinnamon’s hair, Ginger smiled at him and said, “You’ll be just fine, darling.”

“I hate it,” he cringed, now reluctantly ankle-deep.

“I know. But the sooner you get it over with…”

“Yeah, yeah…”

 

     On the opposite shore, Frederick and Tomato had found a fat green frog in the mud. Tomato cupped it into his hands, declared, “It’s my pet now!”

Frederick scoffed, “Your pet? What are you—a _human_?”

“I just think it’s cool…” Tomato’s ears drooped.

 

     Frederick picked up a stick and said, “Let’s squish it!”

“No! Why?”

“’Cause its guts’ll come out and it’ll be funny!” With that, he whipped the stick down and struck Tomato’s palm.

“Ow!” the young satyr cried, but the frog leaped away just in time. It splashed into the water, swimming away into a growth of lilies.

 

     “Ha-ha, you missed!” Tomato taunted, blowing a raspberry at his friend. Frederick gave him a little shove, then looked around the area for more critters to torment. He didn’t see any frogs, but he did see Itchy wading awkwardly into the water. The satyr was in up to his knees, then he suddenly panicked and scrambled back to shore. There he curled up and quivered while Ginger reached over to comfort him.

 

     Frederick tipped his head towards Itchy and asked, “What’s his problem?”

“Oh,” Tomato replied sheepishly, “he’s afraid of water.”

“Afraid of…water?” The young centaur laughed, loud and hearty. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! Really?”

Tomato chuckled, “I’m serious. He can’t even drink it unless it’s in a dark bottle, like a beer bottle. He says he doesn’t like to look at it.”

 

     “What an idiot,” laughed Frederick. After some devious plotting, he added, “Hey, we should go over there and mess with him.”

Tomato cocked his head. “Why?”

“’Cause he’ll freak out and it’ll be funny! Come on, we’ll sneak up on him from over there…” Frederick pointed to a thicket as he waded across the river. Tomato hesitated for a long moment before following.

 

     Large boulders lie around the shore, growing warm in the sun. They were the perfect place for villagers to lie down and dry, including Ginger and Cinnamon. Ginger laid the baby on her back, then made herself comfortable beside her. They had already finished washing while Itchy had just barely gotten started.

 

     The satyr breathed deeply, shook out his trembling hands and made another attempt. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward until the water lapped at his knees.

Ginger called from the shore, “You’re doing wonderful!” and he shot her a nervous grin.

 

     Normally Ginger would accompany him to calm his nerves. But it was high time he conquered this silly fear on his own, he thought, and prepared to take another cautious step.

 

     It was then that Tomato charged at him from the bushes, whooping and hollering. He took a flying leap and landed on Itchy’s back. They both splashed down to the cold depths. Frederick burst through the leaves soon after, and together the boys bolted away in a fit of laughter.

 

     Ginger scrambled off the boulder. “Tomato of Stonebirch!” she yelled towards the forest, but the children were already gone. All she could do was pull her flailing, screaming lover from the water. Itchy scurried far up the shore like a wet, panicked cat. He passed the pebbly riverside and didn’t stop until he touched dry grass.

 

     Through his panting and sputtering, he hollered at the sky, “I’m gonna wring your damn neck, Tommy!”

“He knows you’ll do no such thing,” Ginger told him gently, plucking Cinnamon off the boulder. She and the babe sat beside him as he rolled around in the grass, desperately trying to dry himself.

 

     “That Frederick is such a terrible influence!” she said. “Olof needs to do something about him before he makes monsters of all the kids in the Hollow. What a troubled child!”

“Yeah, well,” Itchy grunted, scrubbing his leg with a clump of leaves, “I was the same way when I was that age. Horrible troublemaker; couldn’t tell me nothin’…”

 

     Ginger shook her head. “I hope Tomato had fun pulling that little stunt, because he won’t be leaving the house for a week! I just don’t understand it. I was never defiant like that. I always did just as my mother told me.” She frowned, turning to Itchy. “Why did _you_ act out?”

 

     “I dunno. Didn’t have a mama to ground me for it, I guess,” he chuckled, but it quickly faded. After a pause, he added, “I just wanted attention all the time. I didn’t care if it was good or bad.” He shrugged. “Even if someone was swattin’ my ass, they were still payin’ attention to me, y’know?”

 

     Ginger’s sour expression fell into one of concern. “Oh no,” she muttered. “Do you think Tomato feels neglected?”

“No way! How could he? He gets three hots and a warm cot, he can read ‘n write, and he gets smooches every day from the most beautiful lady in the Hollow.” That said, Itchy leaned over and planted a wet kiss on Ginger’s cheek.

 

     She grinned, face flushing pink, and replied, “Oh, stop…”

“He doesn’t want for nothin’, Ginj,” Itchy told her. “If you ask me, his only problem is that he’s spoiled rotten!”

 

*

 

     Days passed on as usual in Drifter’s Hollow. Gwyneth and Brogan tirelessly ran the market, Che and Tojum treated patient after patient in the clinic, the Freelance Good Guys patrolled the streets for trouble…

 

     For them, it was business as usual. But for Itchy, a long journey awaited him with a fat treasure trove at its end. A week had passed and now it was time to perform his show at the tavern. He rose before the sun that morning, began to pack his things. His satchel, his lute, a decidedly opaque canteen of water, dry food, and a long knife just in case things got rough.

 

     “Are you sure you don’t want us to come along?” queried Ginger. “I would love to see you on stage.”

Itchy tightened his belt, double and triple-checked that he had everything he needed. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

 

     He said, “Nah, just stay here with the kids. Cinnamon’s still gotta rest, and besides, those roads ain’t safe. All kinds of animals and bandits and who-knows-what-else out there…”

 

     Tomato peeked over the loft, watching as Itchy approached the bassinet. Itchy was careful not to wake Cinnamon as he planted a gentle kiss on her head. “Love ya, kiddo. Papa will be back tomorrow,” he whispered, and then he headed towards the door.

 

     Tomato’s ears sagged. Just before Itchy closed the door behind him, the boy called, “Don’t do anything stupid!”

Itchy stopped, peeked his head back in the doorway. “Dammit,” he said, “I was tryin’ not to wake you. I ain’t no fool, boy! I’ll be fine. Be good for your mom.” He almost closed the door, then added, “And be nice to your sister!”

 

     With that, he was out the door. Ginger watched him from the window as he disappeared down the dark road. She waved at his back, then returned to her bed with a sigh.

So too did Tomato, collapsing in his pile of blankets. “He’s not coming back,” he mumbled.

“Tomato,” scolded Ginger, “of course he is! Why would you even say that?”

“’Cause he doesn’t like me.”

 

     “That’s ridiculous. Itchy loves you.”

“No he doesn’t,” Tomato grumbled against his pillow. “He only loves you and Cinnamon! He probably wishes I’d go away forever…”

 

     The boy heard a creaking sound approaching. He opened his eyes, saw Ginger at the top of the ladder. She crawled into the dark little space next to him, stroking his hair as she told him, “That’s not true at all, darling. We both love you very, very much. We just have different ways of showing it, that’s all.”

 

     “Then why does he yell and cuss at me when I’m bad? He doesn’t do that to Cinnamon!”

“Cinnamon’s just a baby,” said Ginger. “She doesn’t know any better. But you do, and that’s why we get so scared when you misbehave. Sometimes people get loud when they’re scared.”

 

     She pulled the boy into her arms and asked, “Have you ever been upset and then said something you didn’t mean? Perhaps something unkind?” She frowned. “I know I have. Many times.”

Tomato fell silent for a moment, scratching at his arm. “Maybe…” he answered quietly.

 

     “Well,” began Ginger, “when I was young, my mother taught me many things. She showed me love and empathy, taught me how to reason and consider how others might feel. She was just as smart and well-mannered as the civilized folk. You’d think she was a human in a satyr suit!”

 

     She smiled a little, though it quickly faded as she went on, “I’m not half the person she was, but she did her best with me under the circumstances. As for Itchy, well…He didn’t even have a mother. He didn’t have anyone to teach him anything but how to survive.”

 

     Ginger looked out the tiny window in the loft, saw the first cool glow of daylight. “Itchy had to learn those civilized things much later in his life, and he’s _still_ not where he’d like to be. Please be a little understanding, Tomato. He does love you, even if he hasn’t learned how to show it properly.”

 

     The boy leaned against his mother, replied, “Why don’t you teach him, then? Teach him how to stop being a jerk.”

“It’s a process, believe me,” she sighed. “He’s tries his best, most of the time. That’s all I can really ask of him. All I can do then is pray that he doesn’t let his fear get the best of him.”

 

*

 

     Itchy didn’t really intend to make this whole journey by foot. How long and arduous it would be, and what a boring waste of time! Through his scoundrel-eyes, he saw opportunities everywhere. He just had to choose the right one.

 

     This forested road was well-travelled by traders, travelers, and patrolling Folkvar soldiers. A carriage full of elves passed by, pulled along by two horses. Itchy considered waving his knife around and scaring everyone out. Then he could take off with the carriage…but the risk was much too great.

 

     Two human soldiers passed on horseback. They regarded him with a simple nod. The satyr saluted back and plotted their demise at the same time. Once again, the risk was too great.

 

     Itchy was just four hours into his journey when he stumbled upon a perfect opportunity. He spotted an unattended white horse standing on the edge of the trail. A Folkvar soldier’s mount, he could tell by the red embellishments on its reigns and saddle, and the horned skull design branded into its flank.

 

     Creeping up to the horse, Itchy peeked through its legs into the forest. He saw a flash of red—a soldier’s cloak hanging on a branch. Just to the side he found the blue-skinned, armored roshava squatting in the bushes. She was having a terrible time, if her groans and other unsettling noises were indication.

 

     A wide, devious grin spread over Itchy’s face. He couldn’t have asked for a more ideal scenario. In a flash, he jumped into the horse’s saddle and delivered a harsh slap to its rear. “ _Hiya_!” he cried, and then he was riding away as the roshava hurried to pull up her greaves.

 

     She shouted and stumbled, four arms scrambling on the ground when she tripped a second time. By the time she reached the road, Itchy and her horse were but a speck at the end of a long trail of dust.

 

     Itchy arrived in Tonsborg with plenty of time to kill. He decided to explore the city by horseback, and upon walls and lampposts he saw flyers advertising his show.

 

     _“SEE ITCHY THE INDESTRUCTIBLE!_

_SHOCKING! VIOLENT! GRUESOME!_

_PARTICIPATE IN TONSBORG’S MOST OUTRAGEOUS SHOW!_

_PERFORMING AT THE DOCKSIDE TAVERN AT SUNDOWN!”_

 

     Below the text was a crude drawing. It depicted a balding satyr holding a broken stein, screaming as long glass shards punctured his face. Itchy grinned when he saw it, tucking one in his satchel as a souvenir.

 

     Ginger sent him to town with a small pouch of gold. “In case there’s an emergency,” she told him. But what kind of emergency could he face? Everything was going his way, he thought. He even had a ride home!

 

     So Itchy headed to the tavern early and ordered a few rounds. Just a little something to calm his nerves before the show, he reasoned.

 

     When the sun began to tip, Itchy knocked back his last pint and ran onto the stage half-sloshed. The swill in his veins buzzed like electricity, fueling his frantic fingers. They danced clumsily over the strings of his lute and he warbled along,

 

     “ _Just the left the town of Tay-biya,_

_I couldn’t stand the ay-roma,_

_And I went up to Rivermere,_

_The lads was merry, ladies queer,_

_So I went up to old Greenhearst,_

_The lads smelled bad, the ladies worse!_

_Finally I packed my shit,_

_I had enough, got sick of it,_

_I left the Blue Land far behind,_

_And I don’t miss it, I don’t mind,_

_‘Cause over here in Folkvar Land,_

_I ain’t in love with my own hand!”_

 

     Itchy dropped to his knees and ended the song with an obnoxious screech, scrubbing his strings like a stain. One of them snapped with a sharp _twang_!

 

     His audience was far from impressed. They saw the flyers and felt cheated already, and soon they began to boo him. Itchy only laughed at them, made rude gestures and shouted insults.

 

     “Ooh yeah, tell me how much ya hate me!” he crowed. “I love it, you stupid hicks! Gimme more, gimme more!”

Everything was going exactly as planned. The crowd was riled and angry, began throwing whatever they could reach at the stage. Itchy caught a shoe and pitched it back, striking a burly troll in the head.

 

     Itchy’s face blanched. He meant to hit the skinny elf sitting to the right, but now it was too late as the troll stood up with a furious roar. He was a dock worker by the look of it, wearing filthy coveralls and a plaid shirt. He lumbered towards the stage, rolled up his sleeves, preparing to pound Itchy into the floor.

 

     The satyr stepped back, eyes darting around for solutions. The dagger at his hip was but a toothpick against this leather-skinned juggernaut. Then he remembered the book of matches in his satchel. He fumbled for a match while the troll climbed up the stage, crowd laughing and jeering below. Their smiles turned to shock when Itchy struck the match against his horn, then without a second’s hesitation, ignited his own chest hair.

 

     The troll stopped in his tracks. Torso all aflame, Itchy spread his arms and said, “I didn’t mean it, buddy! C’mon, let’s hug it out!”

 

     The troll’s eyes rounded. He backed away as Itchy advanced. After one too many steps, he took a tumble off the stage. The audience shrieked and laughed as Itchy jumped down after him, chasing him all the way out the door. Calmly the satyr turned and swiped a vase off of one of the tables.

 

     He extinguished the flames with the water inside, then carelessly tossed the vase away. “Look, I know I been a real jackass tonight,” he said, strumming a simple tune on his lute. “So tell ya what, folks: I’ll let you take your anger out on me.” He made his way to the front of the room, standing by the stage. “Drop a coin in my bag and break a bottle over my big, fat head! Don’t be shy! Come on now, tell me how ya really feel!”

 

     He began to sing,

 

     _“A hundred bottles of swill in your hands,_

_A hundred bottles of swill,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     “You, Moustache,” he pointed to a man with a bottle in his hand, then tapped his forehead, “smash me!”

 

     The man hesitated, looking at the people around him. They all cheered and urged him forth, so he swung the bottle in an arc and it shattered on Itchy’s skull.

 

     _“—he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of swill in your hands!”_

 

     Itchy told the man, “Consider that a freebie.” Then he swept his finger around the room and added, “Alright, line up, you slobs! Let’s put this clown in the ground!”

 

     Laughter spread through his audience as they crowded the bar to buy drinks. They lined up in front of the stage with coins, bottles, glasses, and steins while Itchy sang on,

 

     _“Ninety-nine bottles of swill in your hands,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of swill,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     The first woman before him dropped a coin into his satchel, then smashed her glass against his horns.

 

     _“—he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-eight bottles of swill in your hands!_

_Ninety-eight bottles of swill in your hands,_

_Ninety-eight bottles of swill—_ come on, sing with me!

_Smash his head, he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-seven bottles of swill in your hands!”_

 

     The crowd clapped and sang along, cheering as one by one, they smashed glass over his head. Some had mercy and aimed for his horns. Others whipped him right across the face. Either way, he simply spit the blood out and didn’t miss a note.

 

     Patrons quickly bought more drinks and jumped back in line for another go, fighting over spots before the song ended. They cheered each time a glass broke, watching the glittering pile of shards grow around Itchy’s feet.

 

     “ _Fifty bottles of swill in your hands,_

_Fifty bottles of swill,_

_Smash his head—_ he’s half-way dead, folks!

_Forty-nine bottles of swill in your hands!”_

 

     The satyr’s forehead dripped with blood, cheeks bruised, eye swollen. Perhaps some of the patrons felt pity for him, for they began pouring their alcohol into his mouth before breaking the empty bottles on him. Itchy sucked down every drop, thanked the patrons before belching in their faces.

 

     _“Twenty-nine bottles’a swill in your hands,_

_Twenty-nine bottles’a swill, whoo-hoo!_

_Sssmash his head, he still not dead,_

_Twenty-eight bottlesss’a swill in your hands!”_

 

     Itchy slurred and swayed, beer coursing through his blood. His fingers sloppily grazed over the strings.

 

     _“Twenty-eight bottles’a swill in your handsss,_

_Twenty-eight bottles’a ssswill, shit yeah!_

_Smash his—”_

 

     The tune came to an abrupt halt. Itchy’s expression fell slack. Towering in front of him was a roshavan Folkvar soldier, all clad in furs and metal plates. In place of a bottle, she raised a steel mallet high and let out a furious wail. Itchy threw himself to the side just in time, tumbling to the floor. A few coins spilled from his satchel.

 

     Broken glass scraped at his hands and knees as he scrambled upright, bolting through the crowd of patrons. They looked on, muttering and confused.

 

     “Get back here, you damned thief!” the soldier screamed after him. She tossed patrons like ragdolls around her, flipping any tables and chairs in her way. Itchy’s wobbly, drunken legs sent him swaying this way and that. The roshava swiped at him but he staggered to the left. She swiped again and he stumbled to the right.

 

     Itchy ducked under a table and flipped it in his wake. It crashed into the soldier’s knees and sent her toppling head-over-heels. He made his escape then, bursting through the door and taking a tumble down the front steps. Quickly he righted himself and jumped on the white horse, still hitched where he left it.

 

     “ _Hiya_!” he cried, and off he rode into the night, his lute on his back and a fat satchel on his hip.

 

*

 

     “Itchy, what on Gaia--?” Ginger blurted, then quickly covered her mouth so not to wake the children. Itchy showed up late that night bruised, bloody, burned, and covered in dirt. Not only that, but reeking of booze and at least slightly drunk. Ginger pushed him back out onto the porch and closed the door behind her.

 

     “Wait, don’t freak out,” he told her. “Not ‘till ya see…this!” He opened his satchel, revealing a modest sum of gold inside. It wasn’t half as much as he’d left the tavern with, for he’d spent a good chunk at a roadside bar. But he still had the barkeep’s payment plus some tips, and that was enough to make Ginger gasp in surprise.

 

     “Is this from your show?” she queried, taking the bag and weighing it in her hands.

Itchy grinned, swept his hands towards the road and replied, “Yep! And look, I got us a ride too!” Only now did Ginger notice the horse standing on the path behind him. He’d cut away the red Folkvarian embellishments on its saddle.

 

     But Ginger still noticed the branding on its flank and blurted, “A horse? Is that…Is that a Folkvar horse? Where in the world did you get _this_?”

 

     Itchy hesitated. He’d forgotten to cover the brand. “Uuuh,” he began, clearing his throat, “I, uh, saw sssome Folkvar guys in trouble. They was fightin’ off sssome ‘Vangeline guys ‘n I helped ‘em.” He gestured to the horse again. “Gave me a whole-ass horse as thanks!”

 

     Ginger furrowed her brow, stared Itchy down for a long moment. Was he lying? The drunker he was, the harder it was to tell. She had her doubts, but then she heard Cinnamon crying behind the door and decided to let it go for now.

“Just come in,” she told Itchy, and she rushed inside to comfort the babe. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Mama just gave you your ear drops…”

Tomato groaned from up in the loft, “Shut her up! Please!”

 

     Itchy shrugged off his lute and belt, tossing them beside the door. He staggered over to Ginger and took the crying baby from her arms. He bounced Cinnamon in rhythm as he sang in her ear,

 

     _“Little lady, little lady, what’cha cryin’ for?_

_Little lady, little lady, papa’s gonna hit the floor,_

_If ya don’t stop cryin’, if ya don’t stop fussin’!_

_Little lady, little lady, don’tcha cry no more!”_

 

     Instantly, Cinnamon’s sobs turned to squeals of delight. Ginger couldn’t stop the smile creeping onto her face.

“I’ll never understand how you do that,” she said.

“It ain’t nothin’ but papa-tunes, lassie,” Itchy told her, planting a kiss on her cheek. He placed the content baby back in her bassinet, then staggered his way over to the bed.

 

     There he collapsed with an exhausted grunt, but Ginger was quick to scold him, “Itchy, you’re filthy! Go wash up first.” She waited, but he didn’t reply. “Itchy!” she called again. He lie still for a long moment…and then he began to snore.

 

     He was out cold. Ginger let out a sigh and took him by the ankles, dragging him off the bed. He still didn’t wake. Then she settled into the blankets and pinched the candle’s flame, cloaking them all in darkness.

 

*

 

     Tomato sat in the white horse’s saddle, stroking its mane. “His name is Stampy,” the boy decided. Itchy struggled his way over with a heavy bale of hay on his back.

He dropped it in front of the horse and asked, “What’s it need a name for? It’s a tool. We don’t name hammers and nails.”

Tomato shrugged. “Isaac’s roc has a name. It’s Shadow.”

 

     “Pff. Humans…” Itchy rolled his eyes. The horse was hitched around the side of the house. It grazed on the small patch of grass around it for now, but in time it would need a paddock. Itchy scratched his beard as he surveyed the property, thought of what trees he should chop. He could use the wood to build the fence and a stable, he thought. But he couldn’t do all that alone. If he had enough gold, he could pay Olof to help him…

 

     “Damn horse…almost more trouble than it’s worth,” the satyr grumbled, then he headed back in the house. He needed a big chunk of gold and he needed it before the horse got picked apart by bears or wolves, or even Isaac’s bothersome roc. He could easily scrounge every coin he needed with one show at the Dockside Tavern, but Tonsborg was much too hot right now. He couldn’t show his face there again for a few weeks, at the very least.

 

     He’d think it over later. For now, his daily chores demanded his attention. Itchy tended the garden and fixed the rotted old fence for the second time that week. He happened to notice some broken shingles when he scraped moss off the roof. So he grumbled his way to the mud hole, a slippery clay deposit at the riverside.

 

     Here he found Olof harvesting great buckets of clay. The centaur dumped the clay into a pile further up the shore, noticed Itchy and waved with a friendly smile. “Hello, friend!” he greeted. “What brings you here today?”

“Roof’s busted. Need a few shingles,” Itchy said. He broke a thin, bendy branch from a tree and shaped it into a square, tying the ends together. He used this as a frame which he piled mud into, shaping it evenly.

 

     “Ah,” said Olof. “Myself, I am making bricks to sell. But if you should want some, you only need to ask. I would not charge.”

Itchy shook his head. “What’s your deal, Olof? Why are you so nice all the time, huh?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just weird! Makes me think you’re hidin’ bodies in your basement or somethin’.”

 

     “But I have no basement,” Olof told him obliviously, furrowing his brow.

Itchy said, “Forget it. Listen, uh…Ginger wanted me to talk to ya. It’s about your kid.”

“Frederick?” Olof sighed through his nostrils, scooping another bucket of clay. “What did he do now?”

 

     “Come on, Ollie. What _hasn’t_ he done?”

“Yes, well…I am sorry. I know he is a difficult child sometimes.”

“He’s a damn _menace_ is what he is! Look, I don’t care what you do. How you raise your kid is your own business. But when that kid’s behavior starts infecting _my_ kid, then it _becomes_ my business!”

 

     “I understand,” Olof said solemnly. He made himself comfortable beside his pile of clay and began shaping it into bricks with a metal mould. He said nothing more.

“That’s it?” urged Itchy. “You got nothin’ else to say?”

 

     “I apologize, my friend. I am very ashamed of my son’s behavior…”

“Then _do_ somethin’ about it! You gotta put him in his place!” Itchy gestured vaguely behind him. “Trust me, I was just like him. That kid doesn’t respect you at all. Shit, I don’t respect you either! I just wanna punch you in your big smile for bein’ so damn soft all the time!”

 

     Olof cocked his head. “Truly? But…” His gaze met the ground. “I believe if I show kindness to others, they will think me a respectable man and be kind in return. Is this wrong?”

Itchy sighed, “I hate it break it to you, brother. But you give people too much credit.”

 

     He gestured vaguely as he explained, “There’s a line between bein’ nice and bein’ a doormat, okay? You? You’re a doormat. People just wanna wipe the crap off their shoes on you ‘cause they know they can. Why do you think your kid doesn’t listen to you?”

Olof thought for a moment. “I am not sure. I thought perhaps because he had no mother,” he answered quietly.

 

     “Freddie don’t need a mother,” Itchy told him. “He just needs someone to look up to. Someone he can respect, who can teach him the right way to be. Why don’t you call Elska over to whip him into shape? Seems like you both got a thing for her anyway.”

 

     Swiping at his suddenly pink neck, Olof replied, “Elska is a good person. But she is, uh… _harsh_. I don’t wish to be so hard on Frederick. He has suffered enough already, losing his mother and his village so young.” The centaur’s long, ashen hair fell over his face as he tipped his head. He set another brick aside and continued, “Every year he forgets more of our native tongue. He will never know his family or his heritage. It must trouble him greatly.”

 

     “I think it troubles _you_ more than anyone,” said Itchy. He finished shaping three clay shingles and placed them in a hole with some dry leaves. He struck a match, ignited the leaves and made himself comfortable while the clay hardened. “I get what you’re sayin’ though. You’re a nice guy and I don’t like putting my hoof down with you either. But hey, I’m learning how to be nice! Frederick isn’t. If anything, he’s only gettin’ meaner.”

 

     The centaur’s expression looked pained. Finally he met Itchy’s gaze, sincere when he asked, “Do you think it is too late for him to change?”

Itchy shook his head. “It’s never too late. But take it from me: the later you start, the harder it is. You don’t want him to turn out like me, do ya?”

 

     Olof’s jaw fell slack in horror at the thought. He cleared his throat and replied carefully, “You are right. I am doing him no favors now by being ‘soft’, as you say. But I could not bear to strike him. What am I to do when he strikes me?”

 

     “Oh boy,” Itchy almost laughed. “If you ask me, I’d say swat his ass into next week ‘n make him think twice. But Ginger don’t let that fly, and she’s a hundred times the parent I am. Go ask her about that stuff.”

 

*

 

     The day came and went as usual. By the end of it, Itchy had made up his mind.

 

     “I’m goin’ to Woodborne tomorrow,” he panted, just seconds after rolling off of Ginger. He figured he’d break the news when she was most relaxed, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. She lay beside him in the bed, squinting to see him in the darkness, for her eyes hadn’t even adjusted before he was finished.

“You’re what? Why?” she whispered harshly. “There’s so much to be done, and you’re going to take off just like that?”

 

     “We got a horse, remember? I’ll only be gone a day,” he told her, wrapping a sweaty arm around her shoulder. “That thing needs a stable or it ain’t gonna see winter through. So I’m gonna play some shows this week and scrounge up some coin. No big deal.”

 

     Ginger thought it over for a long moment. “You always come home from these shows drunk and bloody,” she began. “Just promise me you won’t this time? You don’t need to escalate things with people just because they’re making you angry. If someone wants to fight with you, just walk away. Please?”

 

     Itchy yawned and patted her shoulder. “Sure thing. G’night, lassie.”

 

     Ginger never told Itchy he couldn’t drink. She only told him not to come home drunk.

 

     This was his reasoning as he knocked back his fourth pint. Now he was ready to start his show, so he brought his lute to the small, cozy stage of the Woodborne Speakeasy.

 

     “Hello, Woodborne!” he greeted. A sea of narrow fae eyes blinked back at him, those of elves and nymphs and goblins in this “green” part of town. He went on, “They call me Itchy the Indestructible! You ain’t heard of me, but after tonight you won’t ever forget me!”

 

     “ _Just the left my hometown of Azar,_

_The lads was strange, ladies bizarre,_

_I crossed the border to Yusuelte,_

_The lads they stank, the ladies smelt,_

_And when I tried the Capi-tal,_

_The lads was puppets, ladies thralls!_

_Finally I packed my bags,_

_My rhino horns, my crusty rags,_

_I left old Mogdir far behind,_

_And I don’t miss it, I don’t mind,_

_‘Cause way out west, here in Woodborne,_

_I got hard booze ‘n beastie porn!”_

 

     Itchy ended the song with a terrible screech as the tune collapsed under his sloppy fingers. The lyrics were offensive enough to this room of Mogdiran immigrants, but the sound grated painfully against their sensitive fae ears. The audience erupted into boos and hisses.

 

     With more than a few drinks in him, Itchy antagonized them back. “Ah, shut up! Ain’t you hobs got a sense of humor?” His derogatory language didn’t go over well. At the frontmost table closest to the stage, an elven patron stood up and unholstered a wooden wand at his hip.

 

     There was no time to react. Itchy shielded his face with his hands as a blast of white light blinded him. When he opened his eyes, he found that his right hand had turned to marble, as stiff and immobile as a prosthetic. The elf crossed his arms, smiled smugly as the crowd cheered behind him.

 

     Itchy looked between the elf, his marble hand, and the lute. Then he simply grinned and said, “You think I need my fingers to play this thing? I got an extra finger right here, pal!”

 

     His audience’s cheers quieted to gasps, jaws falling slack when he lowered the lute to his crotch. The fingers of his left hand pressed the strings as he gyrated his hips below. He sang over the sloppy, plunking melody,

 

     _“Mogdir may be a shitty place,_

_But it’s much better in the face,_

_Of Zareen Land, the iron base,_

_Don’t get trapped in that rat race!”_

 

     Some of the angry faces before him softened. One or two even chuckled.

 

     _“Qara Zareen, her big behind,_

_She’s quite a looker, if you’re blind,_

_Her fingers fat, her face unkind,_

_Between her thighs, a bacon rind!”_

 

     He punctuated the line with a porcine squeal. Teeth flashed in the audience, laughter booming through the room.

 

     _“But I don’t hate the Zareen folk,_

_Please understand, it’s all a joke,_

_Don’t wish to prod, don’t wish to poke,_

_But don’t you wish those slobs would choke?”_

 

     The laughter exploded into enthused cheers and whistles. A couple coins flew onto the stage and clattered at Itchy’s hooves. But it wasn’t enough. A mere pittance. He knew he could fill his satchel by the end of the night, if only he disregarded Ginger’s words and came home a little bloody…

 

     The pints gushing through his veins assured him that all would be forgiven once he showed Ginger a fat sack of gold. He grinned to himself, thinking about how proud she’d be.

 

     The spell on his hand was fading, and with a strong flex the marble shattered into sparks of light. Itchy tugged the strap of his lute, lifting it back up to his belly as he said, “Alright, folks! This is my last song for the night, so let’s make it count! Every one of you hobs that wants to settle a score with me, grab a glass and line up.”

 

     He jumped off the stage, patted his open satchel and went on, “For just two measly coins, I’ll let ya smash a drink on my head! Ready?”

 

     _“A hundred bottles of booze at the joint,_

_A hundred bottles of booze,_

_Smash his head—”_

 

     Itchy swiped a stein off the table beside him, the audience whooping when he broke it against his head.

 

     _“—he still ain’t dead,_

_Ninety-nine bottles of booze at the joint!”_

 

     “They don’t call me Indestructible for nothin’! C’mon, you skinny spell-lobbers, give it to me good!” he growled, and at once the patrons began lining up before him.

 

     Glass shattered, blood trickled, and bruises swelled all through the hour. A goblin approached with a full bottle and Itchy snatched it. The satyr sucked the beer down, then returned the empty bottle. With a drunken chortle, the goblin broke it against his horns.

 

     _“Jus’ one more bottle’a booze at th’ joint,_

_One more bottle’a booze,_

_Smash’is head—”_

 

     The last glass exploded against Itchy’s skull, glittering shards raining down as patrons cheered.

 

     _“—oh shit, he’s dead!_

_No more bottles’a booze in this joint!”_

 

     “G’night, Tonsberd!” Itchy slurred. Just two paces forward, he gushed vomit and then collapsed in the puddle. Broken glass scraped at his flesh as he pulled himself upright.

 

     A whirlwind of laughter surrounded him—long teeth and glowing eyes, fingers pointing at the spectacle of his misery. Itchy tried to shake the blur from his eyes but it just wouldn’t shake. He realized he was drunk, potentially concussed, and bleeding profusely. But none of that would matter when he returned home with a whopping 200 gold pieces, he thought blearily. He could sober up on the way.

 

     Itchy half-stumbled, half-crawled out the door. His horse was hitched just outside. After a couple false starts, he got his clumsy hoof in the stirrup and hoisted himself onto the saddle. He patted the horse’s neck and mumbled, “Good ‘orse, Stumpy. Les’ go home… _Hiya_!”

 

     The horse brayed and took off in a gallop, down the long, forested road to Drifter’s Hollow.

 

*


	4. Broken Promises

### [CHAPTER 4: BROKEN PROMISES]

 

     It was well passed midnight, but Ginger couldn’t sleep. How could she, when her lover still hadn’t returned from his long journey? Tomato pretended to sleep in his dark loft, listening closely for Itchy’s return. Even Cinnamon fussed in her bassinet.

 

     “Papa!” the babe whimpered. “Papa…!”

“I know, darling,” Ginger cooed, sullenly stroking the girl’s hair. “Papa can’t sing you to sleep tonight. He’s all the way in Woodborne, probably causing trouble, probably get—”

 

     Her ears twitched when she heard the doorknob turn. Itchy stepped through the door on rubbery legs just then. On his face was a smattering of dried blood, bruises, and a dazed grin. His satchel thumped heavily when he tossed it on the ground before Ginger and exclaimed, “Papa’s home!”

 

     A silence passed over the room. Itchy’s grin slowly straightened as Ginger’s shock turned to anger. She stormed right passed the satchel and cupped his face in her hands.

“Itchy, you promised!” she hissed.

Itchy blinked, eyes ever so slightly out of tandem. “What?”

 

     Ginger spoke through her teeth when she replied, “That you wouldn’t come home bloody or drunk! And look at you,” she gestured up and down, “you’re a total mess and you _reek_ of booze!”

 

     “Okay, yeah, but look,” he said, pointing to the satchel. “ _Two hundred_ gold pieces, Ginj! Count ‘em! And I earned every one of ‘em through honest work.” He cupped his hand around his mouth and shouted up at the loft, “Hey, Tomato! Stampy’s gettin’ a house!”

 

     Ginger slapped a hand over his mouth and hissed, “Hush—don’t you wake him! He can’t see you like this. Go outside and wash all that blood off you for Gaia’s sake! You look like an axe murderer!”

 

     Itchy did as he was told, swiping a bowl and a rag before stumbling back out the door. He passed Stampy, grazing on the bale of hay, and stopped at the big wooden keg at the side of the house. An open funnel sat at the top to collect rain water, which is what trickled from the spout as he filled his bowl.

 

     The water didn’t scare him now; not with so much exotic faery-wine in his veins. He cleaned the smears of blood off himself, leaving thin cuts and nicks behind. The welts and bruises would clear up with a hot compress and some tea oil in no time, he thought. The pain hadn’t set in yet. That was tomorrow’s problem.

 

     When he opened the door again, he stepped into total darkness. All was quiet, everyone seemingly asleep. He blinked, waiting for his blurry eyes to adjust as he crept towards the bed. Ginger curled up there with the blanket pulled up to her chin. Her back was turned to him. He could not see her face or the sour look upon it.

 

     Ginger heard Itchy slip into bed beside her. But when she felt his kissing lips and groping hands, she quickly pushed them away.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Ginger pulled the blanket tighter and told him bitterly, “Oh, let’s see…You disappear all day. You come home late. You show up bloody and sloppy-drunk after you promised not to. You still stink like booze. And after all that, you’re under the impression that I want to make love to you. _That’s_ the matter.”

 

     “But,” Itchy began, pointing vaguely in the darkness, “the gold! Ain’t you proud of me at all? I earned all that!”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said sharply, refusing to face him. “Just when I was starting to trust you again, you lied to me and broke your promise.”

 

     Tomato lay in his bed above, eyes anxious as he listened to their whispers.

Itchy sat upright and argued, “Ginger, come on! I got Cinnamon’s medicine, I got us a damn fine horse, I brought home the fattest chunk of gold we’ve ever held, and you’re really gonna bust my balls over a couple drinks and bruises?”

“You just don’t get it,” Ginger sighed. “We’ll talk about it when you sober up. Good night.”

 

     Itchy sat with the silence for some time. His pickled brain tried to make sense of things, tried to figure out just what she meant. In the end, he simply fell asleep angry.

 

     …And when he woke the next morning, he was still angry, though he did not remember why. The satyr family rose with the sun as usual to eat breakfast and begin their chores. Itchy found his satchel and his lute sitting by the door. He picked up the satchel, buckled the belt around its waist and slung the strap diagonally over his shoulder.

 

     When he picked up the lute, he heard a soft crunch. The end of the neck fell off and clattered on the floor. The strings were mangled, the body cracked. Itchy turned the poor instrument over in his hands, confusion and horror upon his face. The pieces of last night were slowly assembling, coming together to tell a humiliating story.

 

     All his weight had crashed down on it when he fell into his own spew, he recalled. Now its cheap wooden body was nothing but firewood. He tossed it into the fireplace with a miserable sigh.

 

     The satchel still hung heavy at his hip. He peeked inside at his hard-earned gold and his disappointment waned. He had plenty for a new lute! A better one, in fact. There was nowhere in Drifter’s Hollow that carried such a thing, but he recalled seeing a music shop in Woodborne.

 

     He approached Ginger as she was treating Cinnamon with the ear drops, said, “Hey, I’m goin’ to Woodborne again. I’ll be back tonight.”

Ginger turned back to him, orange brows furrowed. “No, you’re most certainly not!”

The satyr tilted his head. “Uh, _yes_ , I most certainly am. I need a new lute. You want anything while I’m there?”

 

     “No!” Ginger pointed to his satchel. “I want you to take that gold straight to Olof and ask him to build a stable, like you said you would.”

“Ginger, look at it this way,” Itchy explained, “without my lute, I can’t perform. If I can’t perform, I can’t pull fat stacks of gold like this.” He patted the satchel. “So I’m gonna buy a lute, play another show, and then I’ll use _that_ money to pay Olof.”

 

     “No,” Ginger repeated, “you’re going to pay Olof, and then you’re going to go back to selling candy for a living. These shows, they’re…” She looked over, saw Tomato watching them from the table. He quickly turned away and silently played with his toys.

 

     Ginger ushered Itchy out the door and closed it behind them. She continued from the porch, “These shows aren’t good for you. You can’t be trusted to be in a tavern with a bag of gold and no one to keep an eye on you!”

 

     The satyr recoiled a bit, argued, “Ginger, I ain’t a kid! You can’t just tell me I can’t do this, I can’t do that. I busted my ass for this money, dammit! I’ll spend it however I want!”

“Itchy,” Ginger said quickly. She took a deep breath, exhaled through her nostrils before she continued, “I love you so much. I love your big heart and your sense of humor. Your bold character, your creativity, your laugh, and all the many, many colors of your soul…”

 

     She placed her hands on his shoulders and continued, “But you are also impulsive, and you are a liar, and you have a deviant little monster inside you. Clearly this monster doesn’t love you, or it wouldn’t batter you like this.”

 

     Ginger wore a sullen frown, tracing the bruise around his eye. “But I do love you. So why don’t you trust that I have your best interest in mind?”

Ears drawn flat against his head, Itchy couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. Perhaps she was right.

 

     Or was she?

 

     He recalled not so long ago, when she called him a childish soul in an adult’s body. It stung then and it stung now.

 

     She’d been right about one thing, he thought. He _was_ a forty-four year old satyr in the autumn of his life. To treat him like an incompetent child took him right back to his darkest days at the Twenty-Fingers Tavern.

 

     “You’re a damn fool! A nitwit!” Adel would say to him. “Can’t you do anything right? Of course you can’t—you’re two brain cells apart from a drooling invalid!”

 

     Itchy’s chest felt hollow, his stomach twisting. Was that really how Ginger thought of him? Quite frankly, he was offended. Hurt. Crushed. When he really thought about it: Heartbroken.

 

     “Alright,” he said flatly, turning to mount the horse. “I’ll go straight to Olof’s.”

Ginger pressed a hand to her chest, let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Please don’t be long. I need your help stacking firewood later.”

 

     She waited for his usual wave, a smile, a “Sure thing, Ginj.”

 

     But it never came. Itchy simply slapped the horse’s rear and took off galloping down the road. Ginger watched him go until he disappeared around the corner…Well passed Olof’s house. It was then that she knew she’d been duped, and her face flushed pink with fury.

 

     She peeked her head in the door and said, “Tomato, please keep an eye on your sister. I need to pay those mercenaries a visit…”

 

*

 

     Itchy ran his horse for all its might, all the way to Woodborne. He left the Hollow angry. This anger only spiraled during his long journey, and by the time he stepped into the music shop, he had a slight change of plans.

 

     At first he intended to buy a better lute. Something sturdier with a fuller sound, something gleaming and new. But he left with the cheapest second-hand model he could find. It was missing a string, the others corroded and soon to be next. The body was scratched and dinged beyond repair.

 

     He took the money he saved straight to a tavern in the commoners’ district. The only green in this dark, smoky room was the skin of trolls. There were no plants to be found, no flowers or color. The place was a wash of dark browns and grays.

 

     Itchy felt rather gray himself as he ordered his first pint. By the fourth he felt better, and by the sixth he knew just how to liven this dive up. He dragged his rickety wooden barstool with him to the front of the room, tossed it onto the stage. Then he crawled up there too with his new-old lute.

 

     “Heeeey, Tonsborg!” he greeted much too loudly. Suddenly every patron’s eyes were on him. “I’m Itchy the Indestructible Idiot, and you’re about to see the hottest show of your life!”

 

     With that, he stood on the stool and plucked a match from his satchel, striking it against his hoof. He dropped the lit match on the stool. Within seconds it ignited, flames crackling under his hooves. Shocked murmurs spread over his audience as he began strumming a clunky tune.

 

_“You ain’t never seen a satyr earn an honest coin before,_

_You see her on the corner and you say that she’s a whore,_

_She’s been workin’ day ‘n night, my friends, and she don’t work for free,_

_Got makeup on her pretty face ‘n bruises on her knees,_

_You ain’t never seen a satyr work an honest job before,_

_You see him in the alley and he’s lookin’ for a score,_

_He’s been waitin’ day ‘n night, my friends, and now he sees his time,_

_To pull his knife ‘n take your gold ‘n pay his way with crime,_

_You ain’t never seen us satyrs in no fancy kinda school,_

_You find us in the tavern, dancin’ on a flamin’ stool,_

_This is how it is, my friends, we gotta play the clown,_

_‘Cause ain’t nobody ever trusts us in this ugly town!”_

 

     The flames were growing, igniting the fur around his ankles. The crowd’s murmurs escalated, then rose to whoops and hollers when Itchy began urinating on the fire. All the pints that went in earlier came out then, extinguishing every last cinder. Then he jumped off the stool, made a clumsy landing on his knees near the edge of the stage.

 

     There he remained, belting out a familiar tune as he announced, “And now the part you stupid knobs have all been waiting for! Drop three measly gold pieces in my bag, and I’ll let you smash your glass on my head! Let me have it, folks! I’m Indestructible!”

 

     _“A hundred bottles of ‘shine at the still,_

_A hundred bottles of shine…”_

 

*

 

     Itchy left the tavern with more gold than he’d ever held in his life, even after he spent a chunk of it on booze. He also stumbled out bloodier and drunker than he’d ever been in his life. As it turned out, commoners hit a lot harder than fae. A wallop from an ogre was like getting charged by a bull.

 

     Itchy barely made it to the door, wobbling and stumbling his way out. Not five paces through the threshold and someone snagged his arm, yanked him aside under the shingled awning. Who it was or what they wanted, Itchy didn’t bother to find out before swinging his fists.

 

     The man was tall and slim, clad in light leather armor. A hood and a dark cotton wrap obscured his face. He caught Itchy’s wrists, effortlessly restrained the drunken satyr while he wriggled.

 

     “Knock it off, it’s just me!” said the man. Itchy stopped struggling, let the man tug his facewrap down.

Itchy blinked his bleary eyes. “Lukas?”

“Yeah. Your wife sent me,” Lukas told him, and then he dragged them to the hitching posts, where Stampy stood among several other horses.

 

     The dappled gray horse beside Stampy must have been Lukas’, for he climbed into its saddle and hoisted Itchy up with him. Itchy struggled only for a few seconds. Then he realized it was hopeless—he was much too drunk and much too battered. Taking Stampy’s reigns, Lukas attached them to his horse’s saddle, towing her along as he rode back towards Drifter’s Hollow.

 

     “Saw your show,” Lukas told him flatly. “Greatest tragedy I’ve ever seen. No respect for yourself or others—not a shred.”

 

     “Luke,” Itchy began, “please don’t tell Ginger about this! I’ll—I’ll go home ‘n I’ll be good, but don’t tell her what ya saw! Please!”

Lukas shrugged. “Nope, sorry. I have a job to do.”

“How much did she pay ya? I can double it!”

“No.”

“Triple it!”

 

     With a roll of his eyes, Lukas replied, “You’re a real sad piece of crap, you know that? You make me sick. If you didn’t want to be caught, you shouldn’t have been doing wrong in the first place.”

 

     Itchy tipped his head down, pouting at the saddle. His ears sagged low, so too did his brow.

After a long pause, Lukas added, “I get why you did it. I saw all the gold you made. Pretty impressive, especially for you.” He looked out at the dark forest around them. Bold shadows shifted as his lantern bobbed and swayed, hanging from the side of the saddle.

 

     Lukas went on, “But take it from someone who knows better: all the booze and gold in the world can’t replace love. You have a nice family. You don’t deserve any of them, but somehow they manage to love you. Don’t throw that away. It’s not worth it.”

 

     Itchy kept his head down, silent for some time. Lukas thought he must be having a good moment of reflection until the satyr began to snore. Lukas called his name, gave him a shake, but he was lost deep in a drunken slumber. At least the rest of the ride would be peaceful, he thought.

 

     They didn’t arrive in the Hollow until long passed midnight. Itchy was still snoring away when Lukas’ horse stopped before his house. Ginger saw his lantern shining through the window and met them on the porch.

 

     She let pressed a hand to her heart and sighed, “Thank the gods he’s alive…”

“Barely,” grunted Lukas, shoving Itchy out of the saddle. The satyr hit the ground in a heavy heap, still out cold. Lukas handed his lute and his satchel over to Ginger and told her, “Don’t worry about paying me. I already took it from his earnings. Big surprise—he was at a tavern, just like you thought.”

 

     He slipped his hands under Itchy’s armpits, dragged him into a chair on the porch as he continued, “As for his performance, well…I’d say it’s less ‘musical’ and more ‘depraved buffoonery’.”

 

     He gestured to Itchy’s ankles, the fur singed down to the skin. “Turns out he’s the hottest thing in Woodborne. I mean, literally. He lit himself on fire and then pissed it out. He sang filthy, awful songs that would get him arrested in some jurisdictions. And then a hundred people paid him three coins each to break bottles over his skull.”

 

     Ginger brought her hands to her mouth with a horrified gasp.

Lukas shook his head and added, “It was the sickest thing I’ve seen in a long time, Ms. Ginger. Forgive me for saying this, but you might consider having this one institutionalized. He’s a danger to himself—and possibly others, I don’t know. The man has serious issues.”

 

     Ginger softly whimpered, dropping her head in her hands. Lukas flinched in surprise when she suddenly threw her arms around his waist.

“Thank you so much for bringing him home, Mr. Fanaka,” she creaked. “I-I had no idea he was doing anything like _that_ …Oh, Mother Gaia, I am so angry with him!”

 

     Lukas hesitated before awkwardly patting her back. He cleared his throat and said, “Uh, any time. I’m going to head off now. If you need anything else tonight, just come down to the compound and get me. I don’t sleep.”

 

     The mercenary detached Stampy from his saddle, mounted his own horse and rode off down the southern road. Ginger hitched Stampy to his post, gave him a quick once-over for injuries. She patted his neck, told him he was a good horse before heading back inside.

 

     Before she closed the door behind her, Ginger looked back at Itchy slumped over in the porch chair. His snores sawed through the peaceful cricket-song. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, she simply shook her head and left him there for the night.

 

*

 

     Something must be horribly wrong, Itchy thought, when he awoke and the trees were upside-down.

 

     Slowly he realized it was _he_ who was upside-down, hanging over the side of the porch chair. But something was still horribly wrong, for there were drums pounding in his skull and his nerves were trying to escape his body. That was how it felt, at least.

 

     He let out a long, miserable groan as he pushed himself upright. An ocean rolled in his belly. His legs quaked, his throat full of sand. He saw the nicks on his skin, the blood on his hands, and pieces of last night came flooding back. Each new piece made his panic swell all the more.

 

     He’d been stripped of his satchel and all the money inside. His lute was nowhere to be seen either. Itchy squinted as he looked towards the sun, guessed it was almost noon. Rising to his achy, shaky legs, he shuffled his way into the house.

 

     Inside, he saw Ginger scrubbing a pot in the kitchen area. She heard the door open, regarded him with a glance. Her expression seemed perturbed, annoyed, as she opened the window and poured the water out of the pot.

 

     She said nothing, so Itchy spoke first. His voice cracked when he asked, “So, uh…where’d my stuff go?”

He flinched when Ginger slammed on the pot on the table. She planted her hands on her hips, looking at him the way she might look at a guilty mongrel.

 

     “You’re not going to explain yourself?” she said.

Itchy scrubbed at his bloodshot eyes. “Do I have to?”

“I’d sure appreciate it!”

 

     The satyr leaned on the doorframe with a sigh. After a moment to gather his sloppy thoughts, he replied, “I don’t even remember that much, to be honest with ya. I got drunk, I know that. I played a show, made a ton of coin, and then one of Atlas’ boys dragged me home.” His gaze flicked up at her with a wince. “Right?”

 

     “There was a little more to it than that,” Ginger told him, the edge in her voice as sharp as a blade. “Do you remember lighting yourself on fire? How about wetting on yourself to put it out? I suppose you don’t—not after you let a hundred drunks bash you over the head with their glasses!”

 

     Itchy dragged his palm down his battered face. So Lukas talked.

Ginger went on, “I thought you were playing music, not making a complete ass of yourself! I want you to stop this clownish performance immediately before you really get hurt!”

 

     “Wait, wait! Didn’t you see my bag?” Itchy argued. “Open it up ‘n look! Who cares about dignity when you got fat pockets? If I keep this up, we can ditch this backwater hole and move to Woodborne. We could even move down to Matuzu Kingdom if we wanted!”

 

     Ginger shook her head. “This isn’t just about dignity,” she said. “And I don’t want to move. We have everything we need right here in the Hollow. Where is this obsession with getting rich coming from? I thought you got over that years ago!”

 

     Furrowing his bloodied brow, Itchy tapped his hands to his chest and replied, “Why should we stay poor when we don’t have to, Ginj? What happens if Cinnamon gets sick again? Do we just let her cry her little eyes out forever? Whoops, sorry kiddo, can’t afford your medicine! Mama don’t want me playin’ shows no more! I ain’t lettin’ anyone this family suffer ever again, not for one minute!”

 

     “In case you forgot,” Ginger began, the anger creeping back into her tone, “ _you_ are part of this family too! There’s no reason for you to mutilate yourself like this. I just gave Cinnamon her last ear drop this morning. She’s perfectly fine now.”

 

     She swept her arm towards the bassinet, where Cinnamon happily chewed on a wooden toy. “Between my teaching and your candy, we’ve gotten by just fine for over ten years now.”

 

     “And you’re satisfied with that?” Itchy quirked an eyebrow. “’Cause I ain’t! I can run my ass all over the place, hagglin’ with hicks from sunup to sundown, or I can play a show for an hour and make three or four times more. The choice is obvious! Come on!”

 

     Ginger spoke through her teeth when she said, “We don’t need it, Itchy.” She stepped forward, cupped his face in her hands. “I so wish, if only for a minute, you could see yourself through my eyes. I don’t understand how you can see all this blood, all these bruises, and think it’s in any way okay!”

 

     “I ain’t dead, am I?” he asked sharply, jerking his head from her grip. “I’m gettin’ real sick of you treatin’ me like a kid, always tellin’ me what to do like I’m too stupid to think for myself. You must think I’m a real moron, don’t you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Of course not!”

 

     Itchy held out his empty palm, curling his fingers. “Then where’s my stuff?” he queried flatly.

 

     Ginger hesitated. Every second of her silence felt like an eternity to Itchy. He curled his fingers again, added, “It’s mine. Hand it over.”

And she told him, “I’m not going to do that.”

To which he replied, “Why not?”

“Itchy…”

“Why not, Ginj?”

 

     The satyress tossed up her hands and turned away. “I’m not doing this nonsense with you,” she said.

He followed her back to the kitchen area as she resumed with the pot and nagged, “I want my money and I want my lute! That stuff ain’t yours, now give it to me!”

 

     “I will not.”

“Why?”

“Itchy!”

“Why, Ginger?”

 

     Try as she may to avoid him, Itchy hovered over Ginger’s shoulder like a bothersome gnat as she tried to finish her chores.

“Why?” he asked, stepping in front of her. She stepped around him.

“Why?” he asked again, leaning over the table as she tried to wipe it down. She pushed him aside.

“Why?” he asked yet again, swiping the rag from her hand.

 

     Ginger’s face flushed pinker by the second. Finally she had enough. Fists balled at her sides, she stamped her hoof and shouted in his face, “Because you’re a damned juvenile fool and you can’t be trusted with anything!”

 

     A long silence fell between them, solid as stone. Cinnamon was the first to break it when she whimpered from her bassinet. Ginger glanced back at her and instantly her expression softened. She turned back to Itchy with regret on her face, but it was too late.

 

     “Thought so,” he said, and then he stormed back out the door.

“Wait! I was just upset, I didn’t—” Ginger began. She flinched when the door slammed behind him. Within seconds, she heard a horse galloping away down the road.

 

     He was gone.

 

     “I didn’t mean it…”

 

*

 

     Late that evening, Itchy found himself back in Woodborne. This time he hadn’t a coin to his name, nor did he have his lute. Folks didn’t know him here. They didn’t think to mind their wallets around him, didn’t suspect his sob stories were anything but genuine, didn’t know just what a degenerate he could be.

 

     Itchy was relying on that degeneracy to get him his next drink, for his heart was breaking and he felt it would surely kill him if he didn’t numb the pain. He would drink until he felt better, let Ginger sweat in the meantime.

 

     If she thought he was so dumb and useless, then she could just try and get by without him. Then she would learn to appreciate him. She would cry and cry and beg the universe to bring him back, he thought.

 

     But what if she didn’t? What if she was thriving in his absence? Like a loathsome weight, a heavy burden, dropped and forgotten.

 

     Itchy couldn’t bear to think about that. For now, he wandered the streets of Woodborne and begged for spare coins.

“I got twelve hungry kids back home,” he lied.

“I’m raising money for the Order of Love and Light,” he lied.

“I’m a crippled Folkvar veteran,” he lied.

 

     But his lies weren’t enough to sustain him. So he begged until nightfall, when the woodsy little city became cloaked in shadow. Itchy prowled around the taverns, pickpocketing folks who were too drunk to notice.

 

     He followed a human man into an alley, waited until he loosened his pants to relieve himself. Then the satyr shoved him over and snatched his wallet. He made a clean getaway under the cover of night.

 

     Finally he had enough coins to get good and drunk, so he stepped into a brothel on the other side of town. He’d already made a pest of himself at all the taverns in Woodborne, but the brothel’s drinks would do just fine.

 

     Itchy sat alone at a small table in the corner. He stared down into his stein, wallowing in his misery while patrons whooped and cheered around him. A sultry elfenne danced on a table across the room while men tossed coins at her feet.

 

     He was so lost in his thoughts, he jumped a little when someone said to him, “Want some company, handsome?”

Itchy’s gaze flicked up to a smiling satyress, her plump face painted in makeup. Her curly hair was done up in a messy updo, cleavage spilling from her corset.

 

     Itchy sipped the last of his drink and replied quietly, “Nah. I got a wife.”

“Oh, I won’t tell,” the satyress giggled. She pressed her palm to the table and leaned forward, breasts slipping out from her leather top.

“Can’t afford you anyway, lady. I’m just here for the booze,” said Itchy, sliding his stein towards her. “Get me another one, will ya?”

 

     The wench stuffed her breasts back into her top with a pout, then stormed off with his glass. Itchy sat in the midst of lively piano music and dancing ladies as he waited for her to return. This was the type of place he’d normally thrive. If it were any other day, he would be dancing on the tables too. But grief burdened his back and he just couldn’t get himself to move.

 

     The satyr’s gaze wandered over the busy room. No one paid him any mind. That is, until a wench’s golden eyes suddenly met his from across the room. Another satyress, though not plump like the first. She was scrawny and haggard beyond her years, likely less than two decades Itchy’s senior.

 

     Her once dark hair was streaked with silver, curly and unkempt like his own. A leather corset squeezed her waist, tattered skirt billowing around her hooves as she charged towards his table. Itchy’s ears shot up. He braced himself, for he was sure she’d tackle him to the floor.

 

     But she stopped at the end of his table, simply staring at him through round, bloodshot eyes. Itchy stared back, heart hammering in his chest. She obviously recognized him—but why? Had he robbed her? Did he owe her money? He wracked his brain for the long, silent moment, until her hands shot forth and cupped his face.

 

     The wench’s nails were overgrown and painted with chipped red polish. “My baby,” she gasped, eyes glistening with moisture. “My—my baby! It’s you! It’s you, it’s you, my god!”

 

     Her hands trembled against Itchy’s face. He jerked out of her grip and tipped his head down, let his curtain of hair obscure his face. “I don’t know you,” he said quickly. Whenever he was recognized in the past, it was usually followed by an arrest or a beatdown.

 

     But the wench would not relent. She snagged his jaw once more, forcing him to meet her desperate gaze. “No, no, you do!” she insisted. “It’s me, it’s your ba-ba! I’m right here, my sweet flea! I-I just left the clink! I’ve been waiting for you for so long!”

 

     The sharp stench of whisky was hot on her breath. She slurred through the gaps of her missing teeth, tears spilling down her face. Throwing herself over the table, she wrapped her arms tightly around Itchy’s neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

 

     “Look at you, you’re so big and handsome! My baby boy!” she warbled. Itchy fumbled his way out of his booth, trying to disentangle her all the while.

 

     “What’s your damn problem, lady?” he growled. She wailed and warbled gibberish, clinging to him like her life depended on it.

“Ba-Ba won’t let you go again! Never again!” she cried.

“My ba-ba’s forty years dead, ya crazy old bag! Get off me!” the satyr grunted as he pried her arms away. Just as soon as he pushed her to the floor, she sprang back up and clung to him again.

 

     She peppered his face in feverish kisses, stroked his hair with eager, desperate hands. All the while she muttered, “My baby, my sweet baby, I won’t let you go, I won’t…”

 

     From over her shoulder, Itchy spotted the first wench returning with his drink. He waved her down and cried, “Hey! Come get this wacko off me!”

 

     The plump wench’s brows arched. She set the stein aside and rushed to his aid. “Calamity, leave this gentleman alone!” she growled, struggling to pull the skinny satyress away despite her size.

Calamity just grasped him tighter. “No, no, no! Don’t take him away again! My baby! My baby, no!” she shrieked.

 

     Other wenches quickly hurried to the scene. It took four pairs of hands, but eventually they separated Calamity from Itchy. Two of them dragged her away as she screamed and fought against them.

 

     Itchy watched, dumbfounded. She was pulled down a hallway and into another room. Her muffled cries were lost to the music and merriment of the brothel.

 

     “So sorry about that,” the plump wench apologized, handing Itchy his fresh, frothy stein. “Some of the girls get pretty wild this time of night. Madam tells ‘em not to drink on the job, but…well, you know how it goes. Here, this one’s on the house.”

 

     Itchy wanted to speak, but the words drew blank in his head. He simply nodded to her and sipped from his drink, slowly sliding back into his booth. His eyes wouldn’t stray from the hallway where the crazed wench was dragged off to.

 

     She was just some aging, strung-out dove who had been in the business a little too long, clearly. Yet there had been something about her—her sincerity, her desperation perhaps—that touched a little part of Itchy’s soul.

 

     He sighed and quickly guzzled his beer. He was going to need a lot more. Pints passed with the hours, and as the sun began to rise, Itchy reached a drunken decision.

 

     It was time to go home.

 

     He missed his family. He missed Ginger’s hearty cooking, her loving kindness, her warm embrace. He missed Cinnamon’s laughter and her sticky little hands. He even missed Tomato, defiant as the boy was.

 

     So he wobbled his way out of the brothel just as the sun began to rise. The first notes of birdsong twittered through the trees. Itchy clumsily mounted his horse, tried to ride off twice before he realized he was still hitched to the hitching post. Then he was off towards Drifter’s Hollow, where he would so pathetically explain himself and beg on his knees for forgiveness.

 

     He went over his apology in his head, his pickled brain struggling to string the right words together. He jumped, nearly fell off the horse when a booming voice bellowed, “You, with the white horse! Stop!”

 

     Itchy twisted around, saw an armored centaur trotting towards him. A Folkvar soldier, armed with a longhammer on his back and a lasso at his humanoid hip. “That horse is property of the kingdom! You are under arrest for horse theft. Now dismount and follow me. You will be detained until you face your judgment.”

 

     The satyr’s bloodshot eyes rounded. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat beading at his brow. What to do? The same thing he always did when he encountered the law, he supposed.

 

     “ _Hiya_!” he cried, slapping Stampy’s rear before bolting off down the road. The soldier furiously called after him, his voice fading away like a dream. The wind whipped through Itchy’s hair. His horse was speeding down the long, straight road like an arrow—unstoppable, untouchable, and free!

 

     Or so he thought, for seconds later, Itchy found himself lying in the dirt. The wind was knocked from his lungs and he wheezed, squirming in his binds. The soldier had tossed a lasso over him, yanked him right out of Stampy’s saddle.

 

     Now he was loading the bound satyr on his own equine back. He seized Stampy’s reigns and led him along as he took Itchy to the town jail.

 

     “Fleeing the law is also a crime, you know,” the soldier told him grimly. Itchy let out a long, terrible groan and stopped struggling. It was over. He wouldn’t be coming home tonight after all.

 

*

 

     Itchy was just one of six criminals packed in the little cell. All but one were satyrs like himself, the other a lonesome human. The stone walls were impenetrable, the iron bars unbendable. A shred of afternoon sunlight beamed through the tiny window near the top of the back wall.

 

     The trial had been a joke. Itchy passed through the courthouse in less than ten minutes, and now he was serving his first day of a seven-month sentence for horse theft, assault of a soldier, and fleeing the law. Itchy didn’t recall the assault, but then again, he’d been drinking and the judge couldn’t have cared less anyway.

 

     “My wife’s gonna kill me the second I step outta here,” Itchy lamented to his captive audience. “Unless she finds a new man by then. A better one, with a full head of hair and a damn brain in his skull! Ugh, and my daughter…” he sighed, dropping his head in his hands. “I’m gonna miss her first birthday ‘cause of this.”

 

     One of his many satyr cellmates quirked an eyebrow, queried, “Wait, you got a wife? You’re _married_?”

“Well, uh, not really,” Itchy explained. “We never married like the civilized folk do. But she might as well be.”

“And this lady had a kid with _you_?” asked another satyr.

Itchy sighed, “By the grace of Karenza…”

 

     The first satyr shook his head and told him, “Ain’t a satyr in the world who ever kept a woman longer than a week. You’re full of it!”

The others murmured their agreements.

 

     Itchy drew his ears back. “What do you slobs know?” he began. “Sittin’ in jail like you got no lives on the outside. Dammit, I ain’t like you! I got a family out there—a lady ‘n two kids! And by the time I get outta this dump, I’ll be lucky if I still do.”

 

     A guard was sitting at a desk nearby. Rising from the floor, Itchy grasped the bars of the cell and called to him, “Officer! What’s the hold up? You said you’d help me write a letter to my wife, remember? She’s gonna think I died on the road!”

 

     The officer didn’t flinch, leafing through a catalogue. Itchy called to him again, then a third time. Upon the fourth, the officer barked, “Shut up in there! You’re not gettin’ a damn thing but your bread ‘n water. Now sit down, and if I hear another word from any of you, it’s a lashing!”

 

     Itchy opened his mouth to protest. One of his cellmates mercifully grabbed his arm and pulled him back to the floor. There Itchy remained for the rest of the evening until a fitful sleep finally claimed him in the night.

 

     And when he woke, his stomach sank when he realized that this was not some horrible nightmare. This was reality, where his poor decisions had consequences and those consequences hit like an ogre.

 

     Itchy ate his stale bread and drank his cloudy water. He exchanged jokes with his cellmates, played simple games to pass the time.

 

     Day 3. Itchy woke up on the floor as usual, with someone’s rear to his right and a sweaty armpit on the left. He was last in line to use the chamber pot. He ate his stale bread, drank his cloudy water, and begged for a pen and paper. He was lashed, and then he went to sleep.

 

     Day 4. A cellmate stole Itchy’s bread, but not before pummeling him for “looking at him funny”. So Itchy lied down to sleep again, hoping he wouldn’t wake until his sentence was over. He would see his family in his dreams.

 

     Or perhaps in reality too, for the guard tapped the iron bars with his baton and called, “Itchy of Taybiya! Wake up. You have a visitor.”

The satyr shot upright, swiping the blur from his eyes. A figure stood on the other side of the bars, huge and imposing. It was certainly not Ginger.

 

     “Atlas?” Itchy cocked his head in disbelief. He clutched the bars and queried, “What are _you_ doin’ here?”

The mercenary captain plucked a folded paper from his back pocket. He unfolded it as he explained, “I found a few of these in my travels.”

 

     It was a “wanted” poster.

 

     _“WANTED: HORSE THIEF_

_Suspect stole a white Folkvarian military horse along Refuge Road, took off east towards Tonsborg._

_Male. Satyr. 40-50 years of age. Medium-brown complexion, balding with long dark hair and unkempt beard, black horns. Carrying a leather satchel and stringed instrument at the time of theft. Has a notch in his right ear. If sighted, report to Folkvarian authorities.”_

 

     Itchy snatched the paper from Evan, looking closely at the crude sketch of his face. “Damn, they got pretty close this time. They never get my eyes right though…”

Evan took the paper back and tucked it away again. “I suppose you want me to bail you out,” he sighed.

 

     The satyr’s ears shot up. “Really? You’d do that?”

Evan shrugged. “Convince me.”

“Well, uh…I…” Itchy began slowly, swiping at his neck. “I miss my kids. I miss Ginger. I know I probably belong in this place, but what good does it do? I can’t take care of ‘em from in here!”

 

     Evan tipped his chin towards the exit. “Sounds like you weren’t taking care of them from out there either. I heard Lukas had to wrangle you out of the local tavern not too long ago. Now what on Gaia were you doing getting drunk all the way in Woodborne?”

 

     “I was puttin’ food on the table, believe it or not,” Itchy replied sharply. “But that’s none of your business anyway. Now are you gonna bust me out? Or did you just come here to rub my nose in my own shit? ‘Cause I already know I blew it! Had lots of time to think that over, sittin’ in this place.”

 

      Evan furrowed his brow. He crossed his arms and told him, “I didn’t come here for your sake. I came here because for days, your wife has been running all over the Hollow in tears, begging everyone to look for you. She fears the worst. But at least now I can tell her that you’re behind bars where probably should have been ages ago. And in my opinion, you’re safer in here than you are on the outside. At least in here, you can’t do anything foolish.”

 

     Itchy reached through the bars, grasping the neck of Evan’s cotton shirt. “Don’t underestimate me, Atlas,” he hissed through his teeth. “I’m two brain cells short of a droolin’ invalid. I’m the biggest damn fool you ever seen! If you don’t get me outta here, I’ll do somethin’ stupid. Somethin’ _crazy_.”

 

     “Well, don’t do it just to spite me,” Evan told him calmly, prying his fingers off his shirt. “Think about your nice little family. Do you think getting yourself in even more trouble is any help to them?”

 

     The satyr fell silent. He stared hard at the floor, fists clenched at his sides.

Evan went on, “I don’t hate you, you know. I sure don’t trust you, nor do I think fondly of you. But I do pity you, Itchy. I truly believe you struggle with issues greater than yourself.”

 

     After a short pause, he sighed through his nostrils and added, “But as I said, I’m not here for your sake. I’m here to decide whether or not you should walk free for your _family’s_ sake.”

 

     Evan rested his elbow against the bars, leaning in close. Quietly he said, “You don’t deserve to know this, but my father had a drinking problem not unlike you do. And like you, the drink made him do stupid, ugly things. I loved my father, but there were many times I wished he would disappear just to give our family some peace.”

 

     Itchy felt cold from head to toe as Evan continued, “I think you’re exactly where you need to be. I think your family could use a break from your nonsense, and I think you could use a break from the alcohol. I won’t be bailing you out today. Don’t count on tomorrow or even next week either. I’m going tell Ginger where you are to settle her nerves, and whether you walk free or not is entirely her call. Any objections? You know, just to humor me.”

 

     A heavy silence fell over the cell. Even Itchy’s cellmates had gone quiet, holding their breath with anticipation. Finally Itchy replied with a simple shake of his head. He said nothing, gaze stuck to his hooves.

 

     Evan paid him a nod, reached through the bars and patted his shoulder. “I see. Then maybe you’ve grown a little after all,” he said.

 

     The captain left. Itchy sank back down to the floor, slumping against the cold stone wall. He wet the bed, he supposed, and now he had to sleep in it until Ginger either forgave him or his sentence was through. His long, grueling sentence.

 

     “Hey,” began one of his cellmates, “sorry for giving you a hard time, guy. I guess you really do have a family out there, huh?”

 

*

 

     Ginger awoke, her furry ears twitching at an unusual sound. It was coming from outside—a heavy, rhythmic pounding disturbing the peaceful birdsong. She rose out of bed with a groan and trudged towards the window. Rubbing the condensation away, she saw someone hammering the garden fence post on the other side.

 

     Tomato woke at that moment. He yawned from up in his loft, “Mom? What’s that noise?”

“It’s nothing, darling. I’ll be right back,” Ginger told him, and then she went outside, made her away around to the garden on its eastern side.

 

     The man was as short as she and round as a pot, long yellow hair spilling down his back. His beard was as robust as a dworf’s, but he was no dworf. He was a human named Glenvar, one of Evan’s mercenaries from the compound. His blue eyes wrinkled with his smile as he saw Ginger approaching.

 

     He waved to her and greeted, “Mornin’, Mrs. Ginger!”

The satyress looked between the fence and the big mallet in his hands. “Mr. Thunderhorn, did you fix my fence?” she asked.

“Just about! I saw ya had some rotten boards here, so I grabbed some new ones from Jay’s junk heap. Should hold up a lot better for ya.”

 

     Rubbing the sleep from her eye, Ginger told him, “I know my husband’s, um… _away_ at the moment. But tell Mr. Atlas he doesn’t have to send you poor boys down here just to do his chores. We’re getting by just fine.”

 

     “Nobody sent me, _stira_ ,” replied Glenvar. He gave the post a shake, testing its give. “I was just on my way home from the fishin’ hole and saw yer fence was busted. What kinda Good Guy would I be if I let the wild hogs wreck yer garden? They’re runnin’ amok this summer, the nasty feckers…” He paused, pale face flushing pink. “Er, pardon my language.”

 

     Ginger tipped her head to him. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll leave you to it then. I have to start my morning chores, if you don’t mind. This really takes a load off me today.”

 

     The man smiled. “’Course. Just call me any time you wanna take a load off,” he said, punctuating himself a wink. Ginger let out a chuckle, if only for his sake, and went back inside.

 

     There was no sense in trying to sleep in. When Evan approached her yesterday with the news, Ginger spent hours trying to make a difficult decision. By the end of it, she decided that Itchy should serve his sentence. He’d been gradually slipping off the wagon for some time now, and she thought perhaps drastic consequences would keep him back on it for good.

 

     But it also meant her workload had suddenly doubled, so she sent Tomato out to tend the garden while she started a blaze in the fireplace, filled a pot from the keg outside, and set the water to boil. Cinnamon began to whimper. Ginger held the babe to her breast while she peeled potatoes.

 

     She finished by the time the water was boiling. The potatoes went in the pot, then Ginger took the basket of peels out to the garden to use as compost. “Tomato, I—” she began, but she realized Tomato was nowhere to be found. Instead, Flora was tending the crops in his place.

 

     Gracefully she swept her glowing hands over a carrot’s leaves. Tiny sparks of magic spilled from her slender green fingers, sinking into the soil. She turned to Ginger and told her, “I sent the boy out to gather firewood instead. Don’t worry yourself over the garden. I’ll have it flourishing within the hour.”

 

     “You really don’t have to do that, Flora,” said Ginger. “Tomato and I can manage just fine. I know you must be very busy.”

The nymph smirked. “Busy doing what? Tending plants? I’d be doing this anyway, my dear. It’s no trouble.”

 

     She took the basket of peels from the satyress and shooed her away. “Give me that. You surely deserve a rest after all the trouble that man of yours put you through…”

 

     Ginger opened her mouth to protest. She decided against it, thanked the nymph and went back inside. A break was out of the question. There was still so much to do.

 

     She gathered Cinnamon in her sling and headed to the market. Gwyneth and Brogan were just opening shop as she arrived, unlocking the heavy cases that held their wares.

 

     “Mornin’ to ya, Mrs. Ginger!” greeted Brogan.

Gwyneth turned to him and said, “That’s ‘Ms. Ginger’ now. Her no-good man finally got himself locked up. Seven whole months we’ll be free of that pest!” She then turned to Ginger with a little smile, tipped her head to Cinnamon. “Maybe now the kids will have a chance to grow up right, hm? You’re all _so_ much better off without that scumbag.”

 

     The satyress began picking through the cases of wares. “You don’t know Itchy like I do, Mrs. Fallbrooke,” she said sullenly. “He has a good heart, he really does. He’s just…”

“An idiot?” suggested Gwyneth.

“A sticky-handed idiot,” added Brogan.

 

     Ginger sighed, “He’s _troubled_. But I knew that when I took him into my life. One bad spot doesn’t spoil a whole apple, you know.”

“Unless there’s a worm in it,” Gwyneth grumbled. “And if you ask me, you’re the apple and Itchy’s the worm. You’ve been putting up with that parasite’s crap for over ten years now. Is this really who you want to grow old with?”

 

     Ginger shrugged. “He makes me happy.”

“Ya don’t look too happy now, lass,” said Brogan.

Ginger replied, “Well, that’s because he’s not with me.”

 

     Letting out a sardonic little chuckle, Gwyneth said, “You’re too pretty to settle like this. One day when you’re old and gray, you’ll finally realize menfolk are all scum, and by then it’ll be too late to matter. Quit wasting your time. Why don’t you give women a try? We’re far less trouble.”

 

     The satyress shook her head. “I love him, Gwyneth, and I know he loves me too. That’s why he lets me see the sides of him that no one else sees. I swear there’s a sweet apple under all the bruises. He just doesn’t like to show it, especially when he feels threatened.”

 

     “Threatened?” the elfenne scoffed. “The most threatening thing in this village is _him_! You know people didn’t used to have locks on their doors before he showed up?”

“Some folks didn’t have doors at all,” added Brogan.

 

     Gwyneth went on, “Now this place is locked up tighter than a Damijani felon. That alone should have got him lynched ages ago. He’s lucky everyone loves you, Ginger, or he’d swing.”

 

     “I’m really nothing special,” Ginger told her. She finished picking out her groceries—a heavy sack of grain, a bottle of vinegar, and a bag of fruit—and laid them on the counter.

 

     “I disagree,” Gwyneth replied as she tallied her total on a notepad. “You taught half of these dumb yokels how to read and write, and the village has been better off ever since. You’re sweet as a peach to everyone, no matter who they are. Even us salty, sour folks.” Her gaze flicked up from her notepad with a little smirk. “I’d say you’re a real treasure.”

 

     Ginger bashfully smiled back, twirling a lock of orange hair around her finger. “Oh, you’re full of it…” she said.

She began counting out her coins while Gwyneth left the booth, started digging through her cases. “Just a minute, I have something for you,” muttered the elfenne.

 

     She soon returned with a basket of assorted things. A box of matches, a ball of twine, a jar of salt, three porcelain cups, and a heavy beeswax candle. “Here,” she said, sliding the basket over the counter, “I won’t sell this stuff any time soon.”

 

     “Really?” Ginger cocked her head as she examined the items. “These are all such useful things! Are you sure no one wants them?”

“They haven’t sold yet, have they?” said Gwyneth. “They’re just gathering dust. Take them.”

“This is charity, isn’t it? You just feel sorry for me because Itchy’s away.”

 

     Gwyneth opened her mouth to reply, but the lie couldn’t pass her fae lips. She hesitated, then said, “I’d feel sorry for you whether you were with him or without him. Just take it, Ginger. Tell the kids it’s from Auntie Gwyn.” With that, she swiped a couple small toys and tossed them in the basket too.

 

     With a defeated sigh, Ginger thanked her and picked up the basket. She looped its handle around her elbow, clumsily trying to lift her other groceries until Gwyneth snapped at Brogan, “Hey, loafus! Can’t you see the nice lady struggling? Pick that crap up and help her get it home!”

 

     “Aye, my darlin’,” said Brogan, and he took everything from Ginger except the babe in her sling. “Just lead the way, lass.”

Gwyneth called after him as they left, “And don’t dawdle! Every minute you’re gone, I’m taking out of your pay!”

 

*


	5. Precious Peace

   

### [CHAPTER 5: PRECIOUS PEACE]

 

     It was well after nightfall, but finally Ginger finished the last of her chores. She was much too tired to read, so both she and Tomato collapsed into their beds and called it a night. There was still plenty to do tomorrow.

 

     The satyress closed her eyes. She had just drifted to sleep when Cinnamon began to cry. “Cinnamon…” she groaned as she dragged her heavy hooves to the bassinet. She offered her milk, but the baby wouldn’t drink. She offered a kiss, but the baby pushed her away.

 

     “Papa!” Cinnamon cried. “Papaaa!”

Ginger frowned, gently rocking her. “Papa’s not here, sweetheart. No papa,” she spoke into Cinnamon’s ear.

The baby wouldn’t have it. “ _Papaaa_!” she screeched until she was red in the face.

 

     Tomato wrapped his pillow around his head and growled, “Just sing to her! That’s what Mr. Itchy would do!”

“Oh, good idea, Tomato,” his mother said. She began to sing one of Itchy’s crude lullabies in Cinnamon’s ear.

 

     “ _Oh, little lady, now don’t you cry,_

_Little lady, little lady, got a tear in her eye,_

_Don’t cry, little lady, or your mama might die,_

_Mad, sad little lady, oh why, why, why!”_

 

     It simply wasn’t the same. Cinnamon fussed into the wee hours of the morning, until she finally tired herself out. By then, it was time for Ginger and Tomato to begin the day. Groggily they forced themselves out of bed earlier than usual, for they had to make up for lost hands.

 

     The garden was watered, pests killed, scarecrow repaired, breakfast cooked, bath drawn, blankets washed, compost churned, food foraged…

 

     Ginger was already exhausted by noon as she picked up her old machete, began cutting through the mass of brambles creeping towards the house. The brambles were most aggressive in summer. If they weren’t cut back twice a month, they would quickly wrap the property in their thorny embrace.

 

     But for one lone satyress, such a task would eat an entire day or two. Ginger wiped the sweat off her brow, grunting as she hacked at another vine. She was so engaged with her battle, she didn’t notice the heavy hoofsteps behind her. She jumped with a gasp, nearly dropping the machete when a deep voice queried, “Need help, miss?”

 

     A centaur plodded up beside her, his equine coat sleek and black as jet. His complexion was nearly as dark, topped with a mane of long, thick locks adorned with golden clasps. He was one of Evan’s mercenaries, Ginger knew, though his name escaped her. He was clad in cotton clothes and bits of leather armor, several weapons sheathed at his humanoid hips.

 

     “No, no thank you,” she told him breathlessly. “I probably look silly out here. I assure you I’ve got it handled. Usually my husband does this, but he’s…” she trailed off.

The centaur smiled a little and said, “A bit occupied in Woodborne? So I heard. It must be hard picking up the slack all on your own.”

 

     “My son is a big help,” she told him. With a little hum of acknowledgement, the centaur unsheathed two machetes from his hips.

“I bet I can be a bigger help,” he said, and then with two mighty swings, he slashed a great chunk of the bramble mass loose. Ginger looked on in awe. She had to hack at each woody vine two or three times just to cut through them.

 

     He turned towards her, added, “Let me take care of this, Ms. Ginger. I’ll have this mess trimmed up properly within the hour.”

“You really don’t have to do that, Mr…um…”

 

     “Javaan of Chidibe. And please, I insist.” Javaan tucked one of the machetes under his arm, stooped to take one of her hands in his own. “Look at your poor hands, all scraped up like this. That’s a shame, woman. I won’t allow it.”

 

     Ginger hadn’t the energy to argue, so she left the mercenary to slice away at the brambles while she moved on to other things. Tomato and Cinnamon were in Olof’s care while she wandered into the forest to gather materials. Plant fibers for string, flower petals for soap, bark for paper…

 

     She returned in just under an hour. Her eyes rounded when she saw the clear space around the house, the mass of cut brambles piled neatly in a giant heap. Javaan had cleared them all, just as he said he would. He stood there with a proud smile as she approached, hands planted firmly on his hips.

 

     “Mr. Javaan, my goodness,” the satyress gasped, turning all around to admire his work. “I can’t believe you’re done already! Between Itchy and myself, this would have taken all day!”

Javaan swatted the air dismissively, replied, “It was nothing at all. Much easier than cutting down bonewalkers in an old tomb, I’ll tell you that much.”

 

     “I do appreciate it. You must be starving after all that,” said Ginger, wiping her dirty hands on her legs. She gestured towards the house and asked, “I was just about to make lunch. You’re more than welcome to join me.”

 

     Javaan shook his head. “In what backwards world does a woman treat a man to lunch? Come with me to the inn; they have excellent food. My treat.”

“The inn? Isn’t it quite expensive? I heard they crank up the prices for travelers…”

 

     “Quality is worth paying for, in my humble opinion,” said Javaan, crouching before her. He offered a hand and helped her into his worn leather saddle. “Come, I’ll give you a ride.”

                                                                                                                                                                      

     Ginger shifted in the saddle, suddenly very aware of her weight. “Are you sure I’m not too heavy? I don’t want to hurt your back.”

At this, the centaur let out a hearty laugh. “Oh, that’s rich! You’re a funny one. Have you seen Balthazaar lately? You’d swear he was pregnant with triplets, but I cart him around without breaking a sweat. We centaurs are very strong. Especially me.” He turned back to her and grinned. “You _have_ to be strong to survive a place like Chidibe.”

 

     “I’ve never been,” said Ginger.

“Then you’re fortunate. It’s a dusty, miserable slum in Yerim-Mor Kingdom. People say Drifter’s Hollow is ‘backwater’ and ‘primitive’, but they don’t know the meaning of those words until they’ve seen what I’ve seen.”

 

     Ginger leaned forward in the saddle. “I wonder if Itchy’s been there. He used to do charity work around Yerim-Mor’s holds.”

Javaan shot her an odd look. “Charity? _Him_?”

“Or so he claims,” Ginger sighed. “You never know what’s true and what’s stories with him…”

 

     “Ah. Well, we centaurs are proud and honest folk, you know,” he told her. “I can tell you all about Yerim-Mor—the truth and nothing but. I can’t speak for your husband, but know that you can always count on me, Ms. Ginger. For anything at all.”

 

*

 

     At the inn, Ginger tried to order cheaply. Javaan wouldn’t allow it.

“I just got paid from my last job. My pockets run deep, so please, get whatever you like,” he assured her. “Balthazaar and I were dispatched all the way up to Clydera. There was an avalanche that buried half the town. We spent three days pulling corpses from the snow.” He shook his head. “What a mess. That’s the one and only thing I miss about Chidibe: no snow! Never!”

 

     They sat across from eachother at a small, round table. Javaan’s chair wasn’t necessary, so he pushed it aside and made himself comfortable on the floor. He set his menu aside and asked, “So, where are you from? Not the Hollow, I assume.”

 

     “No, I was born outside Stonebirch,” replied Ginger. “I never got my papers though, so as far as the Folkvarian government is concerned, I don’t even exist. My mother really wanted to raise me away from the city.” She shrugged. “I grew up in the wilderness, but I hated every second of it. I moved to Stonebirch later on my own accord.”

 

     “Interesting. And I take it things didn’t work out there. So what brought you to our humble village here?”

“Well,” Ginger began, “Itchy did, actually. Neither of us planned to be here, but…sometimes accidents work out for the best, don’t you agree?”

The centaur flashed a toothy smile. “They sure do.”

 

     Over the course of their meal, Javaan had a lot to say about his homeland and even more to say about himself. Ginger was grateful, for on the few occasions he asked about her, she dodged his questions or made up stories.

 

     Her past as a brothel wench was not something she liked to share with just anyone. It was something she took no pride in, fearing the scathing judgment she faced back in Stonebirch.

 

     The only one who knew Ginger’s secret was Itchy. Or so she hoped, assuming he didn’t run his drunken mouth to anyone at some point.

 

     After lunch, Javaan took Ginger home upon his back. He stooped low to kiss her hand before he left, shooting her a seductive smile before sauntering away down the road. Ginger found herself flustered, as much as she hated admitting it to herself. Javaan was handsome and competent, smooth and charming…

 

     But despite all that, he was not the man she loved. That man would return to her after a grueling 7 months in the Woodborne jail—hopefully a better person.

 

     Ginger slogged through housework for the rest of the afternoon. The sun was beginning to tip now, so she set off to relieve poor Olof of her children. She heard chaos from inside before she even knocked on his door. When it opened, she was greeted by Olof’s weary face and a screaming Cinnamon in his arms.

 

     “I hope they weren’t too much trouble,” said Ginger, taking her baby from him.

“Tomato is never trouble,” Olof replied. “But I’m afraid Cinnamon has not stopped crying since you left. I did everything I could to soothe her, I promise you!”

 

     Ginger frowned, stroking the crying girl’s curly hair. “It’s alright, Olof, I’m sure you did. I’m sorry she was so fussy. Ugh, I hope her ear infection isn’t back…” She peeked around the centaur, saw Tomato and Freddie playing in the back of the longhouse. She called, “Tomato, come on now! We’re going to visit Dr. Che before we go home.”

 

     Together the satyr family, minus one, made their way to the village clinic. As usual, the lobby was littered with groaning, bleeding, sickly patients. And as usual, Dr. Che saw to Ginger’s needs first.

 

     “It started around the time Itchy left,” the satyress explained. “She’s been so fussy ever since. She cries herself to sleep, it’s just terrible!”

 

     Cinnamon sat upon the examination table, whining and fussing as Che looked into her ears. He looked into her mouth, her nose, moved her limbs, pressed her belly…

 

     “Papa!” the girl wailed.

Che chuckled, “No, I not Papa! I am Mr. Che.” With that, he finished his examination and handed the baby back to Ginger. “I can see no problem. Her ear is healthy, nose clear, nothing broken.”

 

     Ginger looked dumbfounded. “That isn’t possible,” she said. “Then what on Gaia is making her so upset?”

With a shrug, Che replied, “I do not think is problem with body. I think is problem in here.” He tapped the side of his head. “She cry because of sad feelings. You must find what makes her sad and fix.”

 

     Tomato crossed his arms. “She’s so spoiled though! She has nothing to be sad about,” he grumbled.

With a sigh, Ginger thanked the doctor and took Tomato’s hand, leading him out of the clinic.

 

     Cinnamon cried the whole walk home, finally wearing herself out when they stepped through the door. Ginger carefully placed her in her bassinet and then flopped down in her own bed.

 

     Tomato turned to his mother and asked, “Mom, when are you going to make dinner?”

“In a minute, darling…” the satyress muttered against her pillow. “I just need to…rest my eyes…”

 

     And rest them she did, until the crack of dawn.

 

     She awoke with a start as someone nudged her shoulder. “I-I’m up! I’ll start dinner,” she croaked, rubbing the blur from her eyes.

“Mom, it’s _morning_ ,” Tomato told her. “Also, um…I threw up on my bed. I’m sorry.”

Ginger quirked an eyebrow. She climbed the ladder to the loft to investigate.

 

     The evidence was half-digested cookies and an empty cookie jar stuffed under the boy’s pillow.

“Tomato!” she scolded, but her son was quick to defend himself.

He pointed an accusatory finger at her and said, “It’s not my fault! I was hungry and _you_ didn’t make dinner!”

 

     Ginger opened her mouth to argue. She simply let out a frustrated grunt instead, balling up the soiled linens. “Go get the washtub,” she told him. “And boil some water, please.”

 

     Just as she was elbow-deep in soapy water, Cinnamon began to scream. It was going to be a long day. It was going to be an even longer seven months, Ginger thought miserably.

 

     She worried that the chores would keep piling up while the pantry got emptier. But every day throughout the week, Ginger’s neighbors showed up to lend their helping hands…Whether she liked it or not.

 

     Flora tended her garden, Javaan maintained the property, Glenvar cooked, and even Gwyneth stopped by to bring her more “overstock” from the market.

 

     Accepting all this help wasn’t Ginger’s way. But Cinnamon’s fussing kept her so occupied, she felt she had no choice. She tried to calm the babe as Glenvar scaled a fish in the kitchen area.

 

     It was getting late in the evening. Soon she would fetch Tomato from Olof’s house, for the boy made himself scarce whenever Cinnamon was upset.

 

     Ginger hadn’t seen much of him lately.

 

     Finally Cinnamon was getting tired. Ginger let out a sigh of relief and lay the whimpering babe in her bassinet.

“Is it bedtime for the little fry?” Glenvar asked quietly.

 

     Ginger collapsed in a dining chair and replied, “You don’t have to whisper. She’s mostly deaf.” She brushed the bangs out of her weary face. “Ugh, and I hope so. With any luck, she’ll sleep through the whole night so I can too.”

 

     “Heh, I was a loud baby too. My ma used to give me a little slosh ‘n it quieted me down right quick!”

Ginger’s expression hardened with concern. “Oh my…”

“Ah, it doesn’t hurt ‘em. Just a little half-shot, that’s all! Give it a try. She’ll be quiet as a mouse all night, I guarantee!” Glenvar chortled and put the fillet in a dish, then placed the dish over the roaring fire in the fireplace.

 

     He faced the satyress, began awkwardly, “Should be done in a half-hour or so. You’ll know when ya smell it. Uh, I can get outta yer hair now, if ya want. Or…” He grinned, shrugged a little. “I could keep ya company. Y’know, so you ain’t eatin’ alone. I could even stay for the night if ya want...”

 

     Ginger’s right eyebrow shot up. “The night?”

Glenvar quickly added, “Ha, gotcha’! Just a little joke.” He cleared his throat, swiped his coat from the chair. “Sorry. I’ll be goin’ now. Have a good night, Ms. Ginger.”

 

     With that, the mercenary made a swift exit out the door. Just minutes after he left, someone else arrived. Gwyneth showed up with another basket of goods, setting them on the dining table.

 

     “I hope you’re not bankrupting yourself for me, Mrs. Fallbrooke,” Ginger told her.

Gwyneth waved a hand and scoffed, “Oh, please. My market is the pillar of this dump—it’s not going anywhere. And don’t call me ‘Mrs.’, I’m not married to that idiot.”

 

     “Brogan? But he always calls you his ‘wife’.”

“Pff, he wishes.” Gwyneth crossed her arms, leaned on the counter. “That fool’s been head over hoof for me for decades. He just won’t take a hint and piss off no matter what I do.”

 

     She shrugged. “So I figured I might as well put him to work, get some use out of him. Men, right? Satyrs especially! You know better than anyone how insufferable they are.”

 

     Ginger tipped her head this way and that, reluctant to answer. She settled with, “I know a couple men who aren’t so bad…”

“You know what I think?” Gwyneth began. “You only feel that way because you haven’t had a woman yet. I bet once you do, you’ll never look back.”

 

     “I suppose it’s possible. But as long as I have my Itchy, I don’t plan on it.”

The elfenne raked her fingers through her short, black hair, letting out a groan of frustration. “Does that bum have a solid gold pecker or what? Drop him like a hot plate, Ginger! He’s no good for you. Even a dimwit like Brogan can see that!”

 

     She stepped forward, leaning her elbow on the back of Ginger’s chair. “You deserve someone who can provide. Someone sharp, attractive, reliable…” Narrowing her eyes, she added, “Someone who won’t end up in the clink when you need her most.”

 

     Ginger cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. “Perhaps I do. Yet my heart beats for that crusty, sleazy old satyr sitting in the clink. There’s no one else on Gaia who makes me feel the way he does. Man or woman, satyr or otherwise.”

 

     Gwyneth fell silent for a long moment. “Really now,” she said flatly, standing tall once again. Then she turned to leave. Before she closed the door, she added, “Just keep an open mind,” and then she was gone.

 

*

 

     The nightly ritual had fallen apart. The family ate a rushed dinner around an incomplete table, they were always too tired to read, and then Ginger lie alone in the darkness for the rest of the night. The bed seemed much too big, too empty, too cold without Itchy there.

 

     When she woke, she rolled over to embrace him. But yet again, she got an armful of dead air. Her ears drooped with disappointment, then shot up in surprise as something pounded against the roof. She looked up, followed a heavy thumping from end to end of the ceiling.

 

     Tomato awoke then, exclaimed, “Mom, I think Shadow’s on the roof!”

“Stay here. I’ll go see,” said Ginger, and she cautiously poked her head out the door. It wouldn’t have been the first time that unruly bird got loose.

 

     But when she stepped back to observe the house, she saw no roc. Only Glenvar, sitting on the roof’s point with a basket of clay shingles.

“Mr. Thunderhorn, what are you doing up there?” the satyress called.

 

     Glenvar waved to her and replied, “Mornin’, _stira_! I just noticed some broken shingles on yer roof. I got a couple hours before work, so I thought I’d slap some new ones on for ya.”

 

     Ginger scrubbed at the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Just…please don’t fall,” she told him, and then she turned to head back inside. As she did, she saw Flora in her garden once more. The nymph was pulling up oversized carrots and tossing them in a basket beside her.

 

     “Hello, Ms. Ginger!” she greeted, then tipped her chin up at Glenvar. “I do hope that sellsword didn’t wake you with his noise. I _told_ him it was far too early to be stomping around on your roof.”

 

     Glenvar swirled a stick into a jar of sap and slathered it on the end of a shingle. He stuck it in place, grunted down at the nymph, “Mind yer own, nymph! Atlas is sendin’ me half-way across the globe tomorrow. If I don’t do this now, the poor lady’s gonna get leaked on ‘till I get back next week.”

 

     “It’s _summer_ , Glen. It won’t rain any time soon,” another voice added. The group turned and saw Javaan clip-clopping down the road, carrying several long boards under his arm. He said, “Get down from there and let me take care of it. I was going to replace the siding today anyway.”

 

     Ginger stepped between them and said, “Guys, none of this is really necess—”

“What are all you vultures doing here?” barked Gwyneth. They saw her coming up behind Javaan with a basket in her hands, stuffed with all manner of goods.

 

     She stopped at Ginger’s side and waved the others away, said, “Can’t you see you’re crowding the poor woman? It’s the ass-crack of dawn, for Gaia’s sake! Get out of here!”

“Oh, ‘cause I’m sure Ginger wants to see _yer_ lovely mug above all else, ya old crow…” Glenvar told her with a roll of his eyes.

 

     The four visitors bickered amongst themselves. Ginger stood between them, trying to get a word in edgewise. They simply spoke over her, volume escalating until they were nearly shouting at one another. The front door softly creaked as Tomato poked his head out. Behind him, Cinnamon began wailing in her bassinet.

 

     Ginger’s ears twitched at the babe’s cries. She glanced at Tomato, staring anxiously back at her. Finally she was at her wit’s end. In that instant, she made her decision.

 

     “That’s enough!” she shouted. Her visitors jumped with a start, fell into silence. The satyress pointed at each of them as she continued, “I know what you’re all doing, and your efforts are in vain. My name is _Mrs_. Ginger of Stonebirch and I am taken by Mr. Itchy of Taybiya.”

 

     She furrowed her brow, planting her hands on her plump hips. “Itchy is currently incarcerated in Woodborne, as you’re all very much aware. But not after tonight, because my heart aches so much for him I can’t stand it anymore. Now, if you really want to help…” Her gaze flicked between all four visitors. “Which one of you can give me a ride to Woodborne so I can bail him out?”

 

     A long, awkward silence fell over the group. Ginger crossed her arms. “Anyone?” she urged.

Glenvar cleared his throat and replied, “I, uh…I should be gettin’ ready for my next job about now, actually. Gonna be a real long trip, y’know? I’ll see you ‘n yer man when I get back. Tell Itchman I said ‘hi’!”

 

     With that, he slid down the ladder and disappeared down the road. His basket of shingles remained sitting on the roof, his job left half-finished.

Ginger turned to Flora, who told her, “I couldn’t possibly leave the Hollow, not even for a day! Things would just fall apart around here. You surely understand.”

 

     The satyress’ gaze then flicked to Javaan. He dropped the lumber and took a step back. “Oh, um…I just remembered, the captain wanted me to do something this morning. Silly me! I’m already late, I have to go!” Off the centaur went, galloping down the southern road.

 

     Before Ginger could shoot an accusatory glare at Gwyneth, the elfenne was already walking away with her basket of goods. “I’m disappointed in you. You’re making a mistake, Ginger,” she spat bitterly. “A big, stupid mistake! Just don’t come crying to me when that bum lets you down again…”

 

*

 

     Life in the little cell could hardly be called a “life” at all. After so many years, Itchy had forgotten just how bad it was on the inside.

 

     Though back in those days, he hardly had anything better to compare it to. In his time as a thieving vagrant, he was happy to have three guaranteed meals and a roof over his head once in a while.

 

     He couldn’t say the same now, for there was so much waiting for him on the outside. Bread and gruel seemed inedible compared to Ginger’s parsnip stew. His cellmates weren’t any kind of company either. They were brutish and violent, their degeneracy putting Itchy’s to shame. He realized now just how soft he’d gotten over the years.

 

     Three times a week, the inmates were shackled together and led around town in chains. They marched for hours. It kept their muscles from withering while also making an example of them to the townsfolk. Itchy took more than a few rocks and rotten vegetables to the face on these humiliating parades.

 

     The satyr was regretting everything. In his sobriety, he finally understood now how he’d been so foolish, so wrong, so selfish. The allure of alcohol and a lack of supervision were always a recipe for disaster in his life. Ginger was right, he thought. He couldn’t be trusted…

 

     And that was something he simply needed to accept, for he knew in his heart that there was no changing it. What Evan said about powers greater than himself, Itchy had over a week to ponder it. He’d come to realize that it was true.

 

     Perhaps it was his brain or his soul or his heart—but something was simply _broken_ within him. And that would be okay, he thought, as long as Ginger agreed to take him back after all this nonsense and continue to care for him like a wayward, overgrown child. This time he would swallow his pride and accept it.

 

     But as the days passed on, that was looking less and less likely. Perhaps she’d already forgotten about him, just a distant and unpleasant memory. Itchy lie awake at night, sweating buckets and chewing his nails to the nub as he thought of all the handsome, competent, worthy bachelors in the Hollow.

 

     They were orbiting Ginger like starving vultures, no doubt. Maybe one of them was already lying in his side of the bed.

 

     Today was like any other. Itchy ate his stale bread and drank his cloudy water. He listened to his cellmates argue, watched them brawl and tried not to get roped in. He escaped into his memories, reminiscing about all the things he’d taken for granted.

 

     “Itchy of Taybiya? You have visitors,” called a guard. Itchy’s eyes snapped open, jolted from his memories of his family. But it seemed he didn’t need them anymore, for there his family stood before him like a dream come to life.

 

     Itchy shot upright and reached through the bars, cupping Ginger’s face in his hands. He kissed her through the narrow gap, ten feverish times in a row.

 

     Tomato stood by her side with Cinnamon whimpering in his arms. “Ugh, gross…” he muttered.

Itchy’s smile was ear-to-ear when he exclaimed, “Ginj! Kids! It’s you! You really came all the way here to see me?”

 

     “Even better,” Ginger told him, planting a kiss on his hand. “We’re here to take you home. We all missed you terribly, Itchy. Life without you is just…” She shook her head. “Well, it’s hardly a life at all.”

 

     “I could say the same! Uh, without you, I mean,” replied Itchy. “It’s horrible in here, lassie. Ain’t nothin’ to do in this dump but think about every stupid, selfish thing I’ve ever done. I regret it all, and I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I lost my head, big time.”

 

     Ginger smiled. “We’ll talk about all that later. Just come out of that cage and see your children, please.” She tipped her head towards the guard, who nodded back and unlocked the door.

 

     The moment he turned the key, Itchy burst out and knocked the guard to the floor. His cellmates roared with laughter as the guard scrambled upright and slammed the door shut again. Itchy dropped to his knees, pulled Tomato and Cinnamon into his arms.

 

     “I missed you little brats too much,” he nearly sobbed, planting a kiss on each of their heads. Cinnamon’s whimpers suddenly silenced. Her crossed eyes rounded, for she smelled the woodsy, sour scent of her father, felt the scratch of his unkempt beard on her forehead, and finally she was relieved of her heartache.

 

     “Papa! Papa! Papa!” the baby squealed, tiny fingers grasping forth. Itchy laughed as he lifted the children, swinging them in a circle.

“Yeah! Papa’s finally home, kiddo! About time, huh?” he cackled.

A hint of a smile crossed Tomato’s lips. He tried to straighten it as he told Itchy, “Just don’t do anything stupid again. Your chores are too hard.”

 

     Itchy couldn’t disagree about that, yet he still couldn’t wait to go home and catch up on them. He’d cut back a hundred miles of brambles before he spent one more minute in that cell.

 

     Together, all four satyrs left the Woodborne jail. They made their way down the sidewalk amongst the noon traffic.

“I had a pretty steep bail,” Itchy mentioned to Ginger. “How’d you pull that off? Didn’t make an ass of yourself at the tavern, did ya?”

 

     With a good-natured roll of her eyes, Ginger replied, “Of course not. I used the money you made before you left.”

Itchy let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks for taking it from me. See, that’s why I always give you my money! I don’t know why I had such a big damn fit before.” He swiped at his neck. “I’m sorry, Ginj. You know me, my brain don’t work right.”

 

     “I know.” She smiled, taking his hand in hers. “It’s okay. We’ll just do our best with what we have.”

After a moment, Itchy asked, “So, how’d you guys get here anyway? Did you have enough gold left over for a horse?”

“Oh, no,” Ginger sighed. “The money is gone—every coin of it. Captain Atlas was kind enough to lend us a ride.”

 

     Itchy was all smiles, thinking they’d have a leisurely carriage ride back to Drifter’s Hollow. The smile turned upside-down when they arrived at an open field. There was none other than Shadow perched upon her gazebo, Isaac waving at the satyrs from her saddle.

 

*

 

     Itchy kissed the dirt when Shadow landed in the village plaza. After a brief but harrowing ride, he and his family were finally back home.

 

     They returned to their simple little house and Itchy wasted no time resuming life as usual. Without a word, he picked up his scythe and began trimming the overgrown lawn. Rats and snakes liked to settle in when it was left for too long.

 

     Ginger disappeared inside the house for a moment. When she returned, she held Itchy’s satchel in one hand and his lute in the other.

 

     She buckled the satchel’s belt around his waist, slung its strap over his shoulder. Then she strapped the lute to its rightful place on his back and said, “I believe these are yours.”

 

     Itchy shot her an odd look. “You really trust me with ‘em after all that?”

“Show me that I can,” she replied, planting a kiss on his cheek.

 

     Itchy said, “I’m done being a clown for good. I promise. All that gold ain’t worth it if I’m rottin’ in a cell or dead in the ground.” He fell silent for a moment, gazing down at the overgrown grass. Then he turned back to Ginger and added, “Must have been quiet here without me, huh?”

 

     “ _Hardly_ ,” sighed Ginger. “I haven’t got a second of peace since you left.”

The satyr grinned as he flipped his lute to his front, began plucking a lively tune. “And you won’t get a second more!” he said, and then he sang,

 

     _“She’s my sugar and she’s my spice,_

_Her smile’s real bright and her hair smells nice,_

_I wouldn’t sell her for any price,_

_And she never gave a word of bad advice,_

_To a sleazy dumb bastard like me!”_

 

     He ended his song with a kiss on her cheek. Ginger’s laughter rang out high and bright as she said, “That’s a new one! When did you write that?”

“When I was sitting in jail, missin’ you,” he replied bashfully.

“I love it, Itchy. Thank you.”

 

     The satyress took his hand and began leading him back towards the house. “Forget the chores for today. I think we should all just spend a little time together, don’t you?”

Itchy tossed his scythe on the ground. “Won’t argue with that,” he said.

 

     When they stepped into the house, they found Tomato sitting across from Cinnamon on the floor. The baby chewed the ear of a teddy bear while her brother dragged a crayon over her face. Streaks of green pigment were left behind in the shape of crude stars.

 

     “Tomato, what did I tell you about drawing on your sister?” Ginger scolded him, snatching the crayon from his hand.

“She likes it!” the boy argued. Cinnamon sat quietly in Ginger’s arms, drool soaking her teddy bear. Ginger licked her thumb and began wiping the marks away.

 

     “We only color on paper,” she said. Then her brows arched with an idea. “Actually, Gwyneth gave me a big stack of paper the other day. Why don’t we all sit down and color for a while?”

 

     “What? Like, together?” queried Tomato.

“Sure.” Ginger nodded, pulling a stack of birch bark sheets from a bookshelf. She sat down beside Tomato and returned his green crayon to him, picking up a red one nearby.

 

     Itchy grunted as he lowered himself to the floor with them, stiff knees crackling like fire. Tomato’s squinting gaze shifted between his parents.

“You guys never wanna do what I wanna do,” he said.

 

     Swiping a pink crayon from Tomato’s wooden box, Itchy dabbed the tip on his tongue and began to draw on the sheet before him. “Are you really gonna complain when things go your way?” he asked.

 

     Tomato shrugged, said, “I guess not,” and took a sheet of paper for himself. Ginger wrapped Cinnamon’s stubby fingers around a crayon, guiding her hand to scribble on a sheet. The baby dropped her teddy bear and squealed happily. She doubled over and pressed her nose to the paper, crossed eyes following the trail of the bright red crayon.

 

     Tomato found a sprig of basil drying in the kitchen area. He laid it on his paper to trace the leaves, glanced up and noticed the color of Itchy’s crayon.

“Um, that’s pink,” the boy told him.

And Itchy asked, “So? It’s my favorite color.”

“Freddie says that’s a girl color. You can’t like pink if you’re a boy.”

 

     The older satyr laughed, “What a crock! I’ll let you in on somethin’, Tomato: all the best things in life are pink.”

“Really? Like what?”

Ginger looked at Itchy, saw that crooked smile on his face and knew he was about to say something rude.

 

     He held up three fingers and answered, “Like tongues, blossoms, and sausages.” He snickered and winked at Ginger. She shook her head with a roll of her eyes, turning back to Cinnamon and her scribbles.

Tomato tilted his head. “Those things aren’t _that_ great,” he said.

 

     “You’ll appreciate ‘em when you’re older,” Itchy told him with a juvenile snicker. He then slid his paper towards the boy and asked, “Hey, what do you think of this?”

 

     Upon the page was a cartoon drawing of a young satyr. He was smiling as he sat on the back of a roc, flying over a spiraling sun. His cheeks were dotted with freckles with a mop of overgrown hair on his head.

 

     Tomato’s eyes rounded. “That’s me! And Shadow!” he exclaimed.

Itchy chuckled, “Heh, I’m surprised you can tell what it is at all…”

“Can I keep it?”

“Of course!”

“Can I hang it in the loft?”

“You can wipe your behind with it if you want, I don’t care. It’s yours!”

 

     A smile beamed on the boy’s face as he slipped the paper between his teeth and climbed into the loft. He found a pushpin amongst his clutter and stuck the drawing to the wall beside several of his own. When he returned to the ladder, he saw Itchy standing at the bottom, handing another paper up to him.

 

     “Here,” said Itchy. “You can have this one too.”

Tomato reached down and took the tattered parchment. It was a flyer, advertising some kind of performance in Tonsborg.

 

     _“SEE ITCHY THE INDESTRUCTIBLE!_

_SHOCKING! VIOLENT! GRUESOME!_

_PARTICIPATE IN TONSBORG’S MOST OUTRAGEOUS SHOW!_

_PERFORMING AT THE DOCKSIDE TAVERN AT SUNDOWN!”_

 

*

 

     The week moved on, and so too did Ginger’s many admirers. Finally her home was at peace once again. She was skeptical when Itchy left at dawn’s first light this morning, but he agreed to let Tomato tag along too. “Tommy’ll keep me out of trouble,” he said.

 

     “And just where are you two going, exactly?” asked Ginger.

To which Itchy assured her, “Just to get some bricks from Olof. I promise.”

 

     That they did, and then Itchy and Tomato spent the rest of the morning building a crude brick oven at the old moonshining site.

 

     “There’s a trick to it, see,” Itchy explained, carefully pouring alcohol into the great simmering pot. “Get it too hot, it burns up the alcohol. Get it too cold, it doesn’t bind.”

 

     Tomato cocked his head and asked, “How do I know when it’s right?”

“After a few mistakes and enough swats on the ass,” Itchy told him. He picked up a spoon to stir the mixture, pointed it at Tomato as he added, “At least, that’s how _I_ learned. How ‘bout you just pay real close attention?”

 

     Tomato nodded. With that, Itchy methodically stirred the rich amber mixture of honey, sugar, cinnamon, and alcohol. “Stir too fast,” he explained, “and it gets too thin. Too slow, and it gets too thick. Either way, spend too long screwin’ with it and you’ll have to throw the whole pot out.”

 

     He offered the spoon to Tomato. “Here. Hurry up, we got about half a minute,” he said. The little satyr’s smile beamed as he snatched the spoon, began stirring the candy brew. This was Itchy’s largest batch yet.

 

     The pot, generously supplied by Olof, was too big to fit into their fireplace at home. But this oven would do the job just fine, and even better after they spent a little more time on it. For now, their time was a commodity.

 

     “Slower, slower,” Itchy told him. “The spoon’s gotta scrape the bottom. Don’t leave any clumps of sugar.” While the boy stirred, Itchy pinched a bit of sugar between his fingers and tossed it in the pot. He waited a moment, then carefully added a tiny drizzle of honey.

 

     “Okay, see how it looks now? Thicker than water, thinner than syrup? That’s what we want,” said Itchy, swiping two potholders from the stump beside him. “Watch yourself. Remember what happened to me last year?” he warned.

 

     Tomato quickly stepped aside as Itchy pulled the pot out of the oven and set it on the stump. A light puff of smoke wafted up, hot metal burning a ring into the wood.

 

     “It smells so good!” said Tomato, admiring his reflection in the glassy surface of the ooze.

Itchy shot him a grin as he lined up the square pans. They rested upon a burlap sheet spread across the ground, ten of them total.

“Now, if we measured everything right and we don’t drop nothin’,” he began, “we’ll have five hundred units total.”

“Units?” queried Tomato.

 

     Itchy explained, “Yeah, units. We don’t say ‘pints’ or ‘pounds’, we say ‘units’. And we don’t say ‘moonshine’ or ‘candy’, we say ‘product’.”

“How come?”

“Just get in the habit, trust me,” Itchy told him, and then he began spooning dollops of the mixture onto the pans. Tomato took another spoon and followed suit.

 

     “Not too small,” said Itchy, “or we’re rippin’ people off. And not too big, or we’re rippin’ ourselves off.”

The boy nodded and filled his spoon with care, scraping the excess off the top with a knife as Itchy did.

 

     “You got to do this all the time when you were a kid?” asked Tomato.

The ghost of a chuckle passed through Itchy’s nostrils. “Got to? You say that like it was fun or somethin’.”

“I’m having fun!”

“Well, you wouldn’t be if Adel was here, slappin’ you with a hot spoon every time you messed up…”

 

     Tomato winced. “What if _I_ mess up?”

Itchy’s expression hardened. He replied grimly, “Then I’ll toss ya in the pot ‘n cook you into the next batch.”

 

     The boy’s aqua eyes grew wide, face blanching. Just a moment later, Itchy burst into laughter and playfully slapped his back.

“C’mon, you know I’m kidding!” he said.

 

     Shoulders sinking with relief, a tiny smile crossed Tomato’s face. He emptied another spoonful onto a pan and asked, “Would you really swat me?”

Itchy shrugged. “I got no business swattin’ anyone. You know your mama would have me by the neck.”

“She’d have you by the balls,” Tomato told him, glancing up sheepishly.

 

     The older satyr shot him a stunned look, only briefly before another fit of laughter claimed him. “She sure would, and she’d string me upside-down from a tree!” Itchy added. He rustled Tomato’s hair. “Don’t worry about it, kiddo. You’re doing a great job.”

 

     Tomato’s gap-toothed smile was as bright as the sun, just tipping into evening by the time the _units_ had cooled.

 

     The two then wrapped each one in rice paper and tucked them away in sacks. Ginger greeted them when they returned home, trimming her own hair at the table while Cinnamon ran in circles beside her.

 

     The babe was still unsteady on her hooves. She fell against her mother and jostled her just as she went in for another snip. The scissors slipped and a long lock fell to the table. The rest of it dangled to Ginger’s chin.

 

     “Whoops,” Itchy chuckled, setting the sacks by the door. Ginger sighed at her reflection in the little standing mirror.

She then looked towards Cinnamon and said, “You’re quite the little stylist, my darling…”

 

     Cinnamon didn’t hear her, didn’t care either way, and toddled off across the room. Itchy took the scissors from Ginger and stepped behind her. “I’ll fix it,” he said.

 

     “It’ll be so short!” Ginger frowned. “Ugh, a grown satyress with short hair. How ridiculous! I’ll look like a child!”

“Hey, at least yours grows back. Mine just falls out my head ‘n comes out other places…” grumbled Itchy, squinting as he trimmed another lock.

 

     Tomato crept towards Itchy and tapped his arm. “We should tell her now,” he whispered.

Ginger’s ears twitched. “Tell me what?” she queried, and the boys exchanged silent glances.

 

     After a moment, Itchy cleared his throat and explained, “Uh, me ‘n the boy are goin’ to Woodborne tomorrow to move some product. Well, _a lot_ of product, actually. We’ll only be gone a couple days.”

As much as she wanted to turn around and face him, Ginger forced herself to remain still while the satyr cut her hair.

 

     “Woodborne? Tomato can’t go all the way out there! Why so far?” she exclaimed.

“There’s lots of soldiers there, Mom,” Tomato told her, repeating what Itchy told him before. “They have fat pockets and they like the candy ‘cause they can’t drink on patrol!”

 

     “ _Product_ ,” Itchy reminded him.

“Oh, uh, yeah. They like the product,” said Tomato. He threw himself over his mother’s lap and begged, “Please, please, _please_ can I go with Mr. Itchy? Just this once?”

 

     Softly, apologetically, Ginger replied, “Tomato, it’s so dangerous out there. You’ve never been outside the Hollow before.” She paused, tipped her head towards Itchy. “Except when we bailed him out of jail the other day. That was harrowing enough.”

 

     “All the more reason to let him go,” argued Itchy. “Come on. We can’t keep him cooped up forever! Boy’s—what? Ten, eleven years old now? You know if we were a little more _traditional_ , he’d already be boozin’ it up in the forest with ten babies to his name.”

 

     Ginger let out a sigh, heavy as a stone. “That’s no way to live.”

“Right,” replied Itchy. “So let him come with me and learn how to handle gold. I’ll make a civilized man out of him!”

“Will you? You’re barely civilized yourself,” Ginger jabbed with the faintest smile.

 

     Itchy nudged her. “You know we ain’t doing him any favors treatin’ him like a kid. Look, I’ll keep him safe and he’ll keep me out of trouble. We’ll be the perfect team! What do ya say?”

 

     The satyress fell silent in thought. Her green eyes shifted down to Tomato, squeezing her around her middle. He looked up at her with pleading eyes, begged, “Pleeeeaaaase?”

 

     Cinnamon shook a rattle from the other side of the room. Otherwise the air was bathed in Ginger’s silence, thick as syrup.

“How about this,” began Itchy. “I’ll leave my lute with you and we won’t take no gold with us. Tomato can hold everything we earn ‘till we get back, just so I don’t do nothin’ stupid with it. No booze, no gambling, no funny stuff. I promise.”

 

     Tomato squeezed his mother’s hand and added, “I’ll be really, really good and I won’t let Mr. Itchy drink at all! Um, except water, or he might die. Please, can we go?”

 

     Ginger’s walls began to crumble. Reason and emotion wrestled violently within her, and in the end she had simply called a draw.

 

     She closed her eyes, answered reluctantly, “I suppose so. But listen to me: I want you both back in seventy-two hours. If you’re so much as an hour late, I’ll send every one of those mercenaries after you!”

 

     Tomato leaped joyfully into the air. He cheered, “Yes! Yes! Thank you!”

Regret was sinking in. Ginger scrubbed at her face and groaned into her hands.

 

     Itchy finished with her haircut. Setting the scissors aside, he held the mirror up to her face and asked, “What do you think?”

Ginger turned her head this way and that. “Oh,” she gasped, “Itchy, it looks…It looks cute!” The waves of her flame-orange hair touched her jaw in front, curving slightly upwards behind her head.

 

     The satyr smiled proudly. “Didn’t trust me, did ya? You thought I’d screw it up.”

“Well…”

“And you’re right not to trust me. You shouldn’t.” Itchy’s smile faded a little. He kissed the top of her head and went on, “But I can do right sometimes. And I’m gonna do right by you tomorrow. We’ll bust our asses on one hard, honest day’s work and come home with enough gold for the whole month. Uh, hopefully.”

 

     “For the whole month,” Ginger repeated, lips curling with hope. “So we can spend more time together?”

“That’s the idea,” said Itchy. He helped her back to her feet and brushed the trimmings from her shoulders. “Need help with dinner?”

 

     “If you just sweep up the hair, I’ll get some water boiling,” she replied.

Tomato bounced in place before her and asked, “Can I help?”

“You want to? Of course!” Ginger pointed at Cinnamon. “Get your sister washed up and then you can bring in some firewood.”

The boy’s furry red ears drooped. “I wanted to chop vegetables…” he mumbled.

 

     Ginger shook her head and told him, “I don’t want you handling knives, darling. You might hurt yourself.”

“Ginj,” Itchy cut in quickly. He tipped his head to the side, shot her a look that made her reconsider.

 

     She tossed up her hands and said, “Okay, fine, you’re right…” Taking a knife from its block, she slowly, carefully offered it to Tomato handle-first. “Watch your fingers, mister. And if I see one drop of blood on you, you’re done!”

 

     The young satyr took the knife from her with a grin. “I got it, Mom. Don’t even worry about me,” he said, twirling the knife between his fingers as he’d seen Itchy do every day. But his fingers were small and stubby, too clumsy for such tricks. The knife spun down and stuck into the floorboards, right between his cloven toes.

 

     Ginger slapped her hands over her mouth with a gasp. Her face blanched with fear while Tomato’s turned pink with shame. Before she could scold him, Itchy plucked the knife out of the floor, tossed it in the air and caught it swiftly by the blade.

 

     He handed it back to Tomato handle-first and said, “I don’t see any blood. Keep practicin’, kiddo. You’ll get it someday!”

 

 

**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed the story, kudos are appreciated. And if you noticed any mistakes, feel free to let me know and I will fix them. Thank you so much for reading. :)


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